Fire and Ice
by Emma Swan
Summary: An unraveling series of events leading up to the breaking of the curse & beyond. Revelations about Henry's father, Emma's past, Rumpelstiltskin's background, Regina's motivations, & Snow/Charming's romance. ALL main characters are featured, including: Emma, MM/Snow, David/James, Rumpel/Gold, Regina, August, Baelfire, Henry. WARNING: For mature audiences ONLY. Read content warnings.
1. Loss

**Disclaimer**: I do not own these characters.

**Pairings**: Mary Margaret/David, Emma/Mr. Gold (It's** not** a healthy relationship, though-you've been forewarned), Emma/Baelfire, Emma/August - potentially others, as well. **All** characters will make an appearance, or multiple appearances.

**Warnings**: Listed as **M** because some chapters are graphic and potentially troublesome for sensitive audiences. That said, I seek to strike the same balance that the show offers: there will be romance, there will be humor, and there will be drama. But there will also be sex, violence, and violence of a sexual nature. All chapters are marked with clear warnings.

I will also say that this piece begins with a descriptive and perhaps disturbing depiction of childbirth. If that, or anything else I've listed above seems like something that would offend and/or upset you, please alter your course and proceed no further. Otherwise, continue onward.

The story is written in the same format as the show, so there will be scenes that take place in fairytale land. It picks up a short time after the episode "Skin Deep," 1x12 and will deviate from canon thereafter.

* * *

><p><strong>WARNINGS<strong>: Graphic depiction of childbirth, abuse.

The veins in her forehead were red-purplish wires that circuited into the heated recesses of her brain, where pressure was growing and her thoughts jolted her like so many electrical pulses. What she felt was shame, fear and an overwhelming shock of pain that caused her to grit her teeth and rock forward in a pathetic throe of resistance. The labor was premature and violent. Her whole body heaved with the onset of unbearably sharp spasms, and though she fought the urge, she whimpered low in her throat. With unsteady hands she smoothed her sweaty blonde hair and rubbed her straining belly until her arms went limp. When her contraction subsided, her head lolled back and her jaw slackened as she cried, breathless and shaky.

She knew now that her body was no longer under her own control, and to further testify to that, it began the process of expelling bodily fluids. First came amniotic plasma and blood—a wet mess that panicked her when she felt it bathe her thighs and paint her reaching fingertips. Then came the teardrops, tumbling clumsily down her cheeks like Jack and Jill, spilling pails of water. From where she was positioned on the dirty floor, in a heap of colorless blankets that twisted and bunched under her bare knees, she could tell that she was being observed and judged. Futile as it was, she sobbed for a twofold deliverance—from the circumstances that trapped her like an insect in the web of life, and from her own self-doubts, which had reduced her to a desperate, wingless soul in the first place.

"Please, please no. Not here, not now."

Two guards watched her animalistic thrashing in silence, as if they were viewing a documentary and had no reason to intervene. Hours passed before either of them phoned the prison doctor, in spite of her groans and quiet pleading. Their delay was a by-product of their cruel curiosity. They muttered to each other, but their eyes were unblinkingly set on the teenage girl. They wanted to see her open up—her legs splayed crookedly as the baby came in a gush of rose-petal red.

Her eyes rolled towards the ceiling as she entered a semi-conscious state. Time elapsed, and then there was a woman kneeling at her side, shining a light into her pupils. The woman had warm hands, and a personality that complemented her gentle touch.

"Emma? I'm Dr. Trask."

Emma blinked rapidly, and when her vision focused, she could see the doctor hovering over her.

Dr. Trask tended to her with sympathetic care, pressing a damp cloth over her flushed face. Three medics hoisted her onto a stretcher and wheeled her away from the leering guards and youths who were peeping out of their cells.

"Where is-"

He was nestled in the arms of a sallow young medic, who stepped along in tandem with the stretcher. In a burrow of satiny blue, she could see that the baby was awake and peacefully watchful. She did not know what to call him and knew suddenly that she would never know his name. It was the first of many things she would never know about him, she realized. She heard herself produce a noise that could be classified as either a laugh or a cry, then a groan of unintelligible origin. Her emotions were temporarily confused and interchangeable, and she heard herself speak again, or perhaps that was someone else-

"I always wanted to be a mother."

Mary Margaret was looking at her in that indirect way, smiling sheepishly into a mug of hot chocolate that was topped with cinnamon. Both of her hands were clasped tightly on the drink either because she was cold or perhaps because she was overly cautious. When she set the mug down on the table, she tucked a stray strand of brownish hair behind her ear and allowed her eyelashes to flutter wistfully. She wore a dress that was the color of raspberry sorbet, with a cardigan that was fastened only by the top two buttons.

"Are you okay?"

The brunette leaned closer, trying to decipher the expression on Emma Swan's face in the dim glow of the kitchen. She appeared vacant—as if all her thoughts crept soundlessly away while Mary Margaret babbled about former boyfriends and her plans for the future.

When she re-gained her composure, Emma sipped her cocoa and averted her gaze to the newspaper, scanning the headlines. Her lax mouth became tight and flat, more like a line than an oblong shape.

"I'm fine," she muttered.

"Hey."

Mary Margaret's voice was soft but contained a note of persistence, and she snaked her arm across the table to rustle the paper and re-direct her roommate's attention. As soon as Emma glanced up at her, they conducted a silent exchange filled with meaningful glances and gestures. They were equally determined to will the other to speak.

With a touch of huffy exasperation, Emma exhaled and finally conceded:

"I was just thinking."

Dissatisfied with that answer, Mary Margaret crossed her arms and looked pointedly at her friend. It was late and they both should have been asleep, but she had come downstairs earlier to find Emma pawing through a box of old letters and photographs. It was natural to ask questions under such circumstances, but when the bombshell blonde had rolled her eyes at her and supplied one-word responses to her inquiries, it started to seem less like a conversation and more like an interrogation. Consequently they had switched to neutral topics while Mary Margaret puttered around preparing the warm drinks, and that was when Emma had taken the opportunity to check out. If granted another chance, Mary Margaret was sure she would retreat back into her quiet contemplations.

"May I?"

Mary Margaret rarely acted without second-guessing herself, but here she was placing her outstretched hand on top of the black cigar box that held Emma's collection of trinkets and keepsakes. It was a brave move, one that perhaps could be attributed to the heroine still alive within her. She boldly lifted the lid and removed a stack of old photos, a seashell that had been made smooth either by the ocean or someone's hand, and a crumpled picture that had been drawn by a child.

Emma stiffened involuntarily as Mary Margaret unfolded the picture and scrutinized her artwork. It was a family portrait sketched with crayons and washable markers, covered with dull glitter and faded stickers. There was a father, who had been drawn without regard to scale or dimension, and therefore towered higher than what she could only assume were trees. Next to him was a smiling mother, decked in celadon and emerald. Then there was a girl who was squeezed into the bottom corner, looking small and misplaced. She stood out only because she was drawn in shades of red, in a world composed of placid blues and greens.

"Is she on fire?" Mary Margaret gaped at the depiction of the child.

"_No,_" Emma spoke defensively. "My favorite color was red."

"Oh," she managed to utter, though it seemed she had already formulated her own interpretation of the image.

"I was seven when I drew that picture, okay?"

"Is this what you imagined your family was like?"

Emma tried to laugh, but it came out in a strangled way she could never have predicted. Her nostrils flared and she pursed her lips, turning her head so she could glare at the wall. There was a fierce, dark energy in her eyes that she would not permit Mary Margaret to see.

"I imagined they were so many different people, in so many different places. I made up stories about them-tirelessly."

The edge in Emma's voice caused Mary Margaret to hastily return the picture to where it belonged, on the bottom of the black cigar box. She deliberated briefly before placing her hand over Emma's wrist, a motion that caused the blonde to jerk sharply. Though startled, Mary Margaret only reacted by blinking twice, and soon her tension dissipated. The muscles in Emma's wrist were also loosening and relaxing, and there was a change in her general posture.

"I'm sure you'll find them. You just have to keep looking."

"Yup. You should go to bed."

"Should I?"

Mary Margaret's brow rippled as if she was thinking it through.

"You know, I would, but I'm kind of in the middle of a conversation right now."

It would have been a fine proposal on any other night, but it was the first time they discussed her childhood this candidly. Mary Margaret was an exceptionally curious person under normal circumstances, but her interest in Emma Swan was growing considerably. Maybe it was because Emma made offhanded comments at times when they were interrupted and she could not possibly elaborate. Whenever Mary Margaret wanted to ask her a question about her past, they were forced to focus on a sudden problem or crisis. Thankfully it was too late for anyone to call or come knocking at the door.

She stood up, gripped her mug in one hand and the stack of photographs in the other, and re-located to the sofa. When she had deposited her cup on the battered-looking coffee table, she beckoned for Emma to join her.

"Tell me about them," she requested, referring to the people in the photos.

Emma took them from her and arranged them in a row like tarot cards, flipping them so that Mary Margaret could view them from the proper perspective. From where Emma sat, each person was upside down, and she found she preferred it like that.

"Lived with them until I was three. They would have kept me, I think—but then they had their own kid."

She was talking about the couple in the first photograph: they both had strawberry blonde hair and smiled without showing their teeth. They wore matching navy sweaters and their shoulders were touching, though they were seated in separate chairs.

"I don't remember what they did for a living, or even the address of the house. I just remember that she smelled like cinnamon, and that he collected toy ships."

The second photograph was taken in front of a modest white house with overgrown grass in the yard. The roof was missing shingles and there were rusted bicycles leaning against the railing on the porch. Three boys were lined up next to an old man and an even older woman. All of the boys were russet haired, and looked serious enough that—if not for their short stature—they could be mistaken for men.

"Mr. and Mrs. Addison, and their three boys—Nicholas, Jacob and Freddie. They were religious and strict. Never spoke during dinnertime, didn't own a TV. I was there until I turned six. I was a meal ticket for them, but they told the neighbors I was their charity project."

The third photo was a Polaroid and this time Emma was included in the shot. There were two other children on either side of her, and while both of them had pageboy hairstyles, the younger one was wearing a flowery dress. Both children were tan and cheery-looking, contrasting with the lily-white waif who stood awkwardly in their midst.

"That's Daniela and that's Toby. The one in the middle I don't recognize anymore."

Mary Margaret's eyes widened before they rocketed up to look at Emma, and she laughed "But that's you!"

Her laughter subsided when she took full stock of Ms. Swan—her hunched body and her arms that were wrapped in front of her like a barrier, her chin that was jutting out stubbornly. She appeared mesmerized by the photo, as if the colors had broken up and shifted, as if she was peering through a kaleidoscope at a scene that would keep on changing.

"You were a pretty child."

"Other people thought so, too."

Emma's delivery implied something sinister, and incited Mary Margaret to become still—so still in fact that her face took on the likeness of a mask formed from plaster, her mouth the only imperfection—it hung open and her jaw quavered. Her body ached when she tried to sit upright and straighten her back, and her mind was in a similarly sluggish state. Emma snatched up the photographs and restored them to her box, then shrugged a duster-length sweater over her shoulders.

"Emma-"

"It's late."

There was no use in stopping her, no words that could draw her back into the conversation. Like a wind-up toy, she zigzagged through the kitchen and left her mug of cocoa in the sink, and then zipped up the stairs to the extra bedroom. Mary Margaret hesitated and then eased off of the couch, following her lead; she listened for a moment outside of Emma's door and then shuffled back down the stairs to her own room, where she picked up a doll that had presumably belonged to her since she was a little girl. Her heart surged with sorrow and she felt an impulse to retrace her steps and demand to hear what remained to be told of the story. Instead she hugged the limp doll to her chest, and sank down on the trunk that sat at the foot of her bed.

The face of the doll was porcelain and she wore a bonnet of antique white. Rosette buttons held her tiny smock in place and there was a charming blue bow under her neck. She was a beloved plaything, and her sleepy eyes were full of the wishes that children whisper to the stars at bedtime.

* * *

><p>A rocking chair was moved close to the nursery window, and that was where Snow White perched in the afternoon, cradling that selfsame doll. Her prince was away from the castle, hunting the boars that roamed the eastern forest. It was a lonesome day without him, but she promised to rest so that she would be refreshed for their journey. In the morning they were meant to travel to the lake country where they would spend their last holiday before the birth of their child.<p>

She alternated between dozing fitfully and singing sweet melodies to the babe, who she saw in her mind's eye as a mischievous boy with the features of his father. All of her gowns fit snug on her midsection, but she satisfied her every craving with sugarplums and dates and macaroons, arguing that her son would have a sweet tooth. Her mouth was coated with nectar when she heard footsteps behind her, and as she abruptly spun in her chair, she dropped a sticky sugarplum upon the floor.

"Please - allow me."

It was a boy who crossed the room and picked the sugarplum off of the carpet, cupping it in the palm of his hand. The lad had tousled, messy brown hair and wore a black cape that nearly tripped him with each step he took. He discarded the spoiled treat on the sill of the window and observed while a bird swept in and pecked at it. When he became aware that Snow White was watching him much in the same way he was watching the bird, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed his hand until it was clean. Then he went back towards the rocking chair and knelt at Snow's feet, eyeing her pregnant belly with fascination. It was not unusual for children to wander the castle, but she knew each child of the court by name. Therefore she recoiled from him when he extended his fingers and tentatively poked her abdomen, because he was unfamiliar to her.

"Who are you?"

"The son of the wicked fortune-teller, Rumpelstiltskin. My name is Baelfire."

"Baelfire—why are you here?"

He was a polite and docile soul, whose gaze mutely conveyed what he uttered next.

"I can see you are afraid. You needn't fear me. I mean you no harm."

"What do you want with me, then?"

Baelfire's hand stretched over the globe of Snow White's stomach, and he regarded it as though it was a crystal ball.

"It is the weaver's trade to handle the threads of fate. I have gifts of my own—abilities that allow me to know the future. My father hopes to learn the name of your unborn child. I have foreseen that you will tell him her name."

"_Her_ name?"

Snow White's voice changed pitch and her eyes darted around the room. All of the trappings—including the blankets, the decorative rug, the glass mobile, the ruffles and the various accouterments—were blue. While there was nothing distinctly masculine about the nursery—regardless of the color palette—she had the foreboding sense that she would not raise a daughter in that place. She could not envision the girl sleeping in that crib, or chattering quietly with the puppets and playthings that were arranged on the shelves. She could not picture the girl doing any of the things she had imagined her son would do.

Snow White was at first dismayed, wondering if it was an ill-omen that she was unable to dream of her daughter—yet as she stroked her burgeoning belly, she managed to do what she before considered impossible: she reached a decision about what to name the child. It was then that she had the unequivocal sense that he was right: she would indeed have a daughter, and they would call her…

"Emma."

It was the boy who spoke the name aloud. She tilted her head and stared at him almost fearfully, then shut her eyes lest he glimpse the panic mirrored therein.

"You must not-"

"I will not tell my father her true name. As I said, you will be the one to tell him. I came here to give you this."

He opened the pack that hung on his shoulders and retrieved a thick, white yarn that was spun from the finest lamb's wool.

"You will knit a blanket for her."

"Why?"

The question came even as she accepted the gift and folded it into her lap. There would be time to knit a gorgeous little blanket, embroidered with her name and woven with delicate ribbon.

"Because even when she is old, she will look at it as a reminder that she was loved. It will keep her heart safe."

Baelfire exited as Snow White nodded vigorously, already knowing she would comply. As he left, he caught sight of her hurrying to find the shears and knitting needles, opening and closing a drawer by the west window.

* * *

><p>Rumpelstiltskin's skin was damp, and in the flashing light of the torches, it appeared his face was covered in candlewax drippings. As was his habit, he huddled like a nocturne creature on one of the ceiling beams, and climbed down as the guards advanced towards his cell. His jailers obscured their faces from him, even when he banged violently on the bars and taunted them with verbal abuses. The arrival of his boy quieted him, but he paced restlessly and pried at his overlong fingernails while they talked.<p>

The preternatural spark in his father's eyes was disturbing to behold, but Baelfire maintained steadfast during the altercation.

"I am leaving you here to rot. You have lost me for good this time!"

"Please, boy—no. Tell me what you want. I will do anything you ask. I will give you-"

"You cannot bargain with me!"

"Bae-"

"You are a coward!"

The boy felt his throat constrict, and his nose and eyes were wet but his fury surpassed all other emotions he was experiencing. He was overwhelmed and shook with vibrations, as the earth shakes under influence of a quake.

Rumpelstiltskin was an imp, a dangerous magician whose every word could be construed as a spell—but as his son denounced him, he looked like nothing more than a withered old man.

"One day you will realize that what you most desire—whether it is love, or respect, or power, or gold—is no prize at all if it is the reward for sacrificing your identity. You have lost your humanity."

"Son-"

Baelfire thrust his hand through the metal bars and freed the ball of gold yarn he had been squeezing tightly in his fist throughout the conversation. It had been tucked into the interior of his cloak, and it represented the final test he would pose to the man who stood before him. The yarn hit the dusty floor and tumbled away into the shadows, and with the lazy reflexes of a housecat, his father rolled after it. Rumpelstiltskin groped around in the darkness, scraping the earth with his claws and spitting curses when he came up empty-handed.

"This is my last favor to you."

"Ah."

Rumpelstiltskin exhaled as his thumb brushed the soft golden thread and he fished it out of a pool of blackness. His face contorted into a lopsided smile, and he held the ball of yarn within his line of sight, looking it up and down as if he was sizing up an attractive woman. Singularly focused on that small triumph, he failed to notice that his son was scuttling away, leaving him alone in the dungeon.

"No, Bae, no-"

Helplessly he reached through the bars, but the guards beat him back with cudgels and he unleashed a hiss of pain. He might have fought for another audience with his son and begged him to stay, but his powers of prescience imbued him with the knowledge that their bond was irreparable in this lifetime. He choked and toppled to his knees, shedding tears that caused his face to look like it was melting.


	2. Masks

Mr. Gold dressed exclusively in business attire: he wore a suit jacket and matching slacks, with a fashionable tie that corresponded well with the kerchief tucked into his breast pocket. His shaggy hair framed his face, kept in restraint by just a grain's worth of styling gel. As he sauntered down the fairway, his favorite cane in his clutch, he spotted Henry scurrying along with his schoolbag. It was probable that their destination was the same, but the young man's gait outpaced his own.

"On his way to see Emma, no doubt."

Henry slapped the door of the apartment with the flat of his hand and then wrangled his striped scarf from around his throat. His adoptive mother—the mayor—had a tendency of tying it too tightly, and the garment frequently chafed his skin. It was unlike him to complain about trivialities, so loosening his scarf had become a part of his daily routine.

The other part of Henry's daily routine involved waking up early enough to track down his real mother. Each morning, he peeped through the window of the diner and ran the length of the town's main road. If he had not encountered Emma by the time he came to Mary Margaret's apartment, he climbed the stairs and knocked. For the past week, Henry had been forced to deviate from his regular morning ritual, but today he snuck away from Regina, disregarding her words of warning.

He knocked again and stood there expectantly, anticipating that moment of gratification when his mother would swing open the door and give him a knowing look.

It was Mary Margaret who greeted him, however; her eyes twinkled when she saw him, and as per usual, she was draped in springtime colors.

If Henry was not such an astute observer, he might have missed those minor details that betrayed her exhaustion. The dark circles that beset her pale skin negated the sparkle in her eyes and her clothing was crumpled instead of freshly ironed. She braced herself on the door frame much longer than should have been necessary, captivated by a daydream.

"Bad night?"

Henry ducked under her arm and went to sit at the kitchen table, where Emma was poised to answer him.

"We were up late. What are you doing here?"

As far as he knew, his mother's wardrobe consisted of leather jackets, jeans and knee-high boots. It was an anomaly to find her sitting there in her current state of dress: she wore an oversized sleeping shirt and her blonde curls were gathered into an unruly ponytail. The disheveled look did not suit her, and he cast a worried glance in Mary Margaret's direction before he pulled up a chair beside Emma.

"I missed you," he told her.

When he approached, she ruffled Henry's hair and an easy smile tugged at her lips, but as she scooped eggs onto a plate for him, Emma's elbow bumped the pitcher of orange juice. It was a blatant sign that she was not as self-possessed as she hoped she appeared that morning—no matter how she smiled.

The pitcher tipped, rolled and hit the floor, where it shattered into shards and jagged pieces. It took Emma a count of several seconds before she recovered her senses and calmed her jittery nerves.

In the meantime, Mary Margaret rushed over to mop up the mess and Henry helped by removing all items from the table—their plates, the breakfast tray, and the bouquet of flowers that was their centerpiece.

After some delay, Emma blotted the surfaces that Mary Margaret had missed, using her own paper napkin and the stack that had formerly been positioned in front of her plate. Then she stooped to collect the broken pieces of glass, slicing her fleshy palm in the process.

"Have I come at an inconvenient time?"

Three sets of green eyes traveled towards the door, which Mr. Gold had propped ajar with the tip of his cane.

Mary Margaret dumped the sopping wet napkins in the trash and then ambled nearer to the door, crossing her arms as she calculated the possible reasons for his presence. In the end it was easier and more expedient to ask.

"Can we help you with something, Mr. Gold?"

"As you know, I host a masquerade gala every year. I sent out your invitation weeks ago, but it has come to my attention that it was never delivered. I wanted to extend my personal apologies to you and Ms. Swan. It is my sincerest wish that you will attend."

"Um."

Since she was not talented at inventing excuses, Mary Margaret glanced sideways at Emma to indicate that she required her assistance. It was then that she realized there was a trail of blood down Emma's arm-a single brushstroke of crimson on a rough canvas.

"Emma, you're bleeding-"

Mr. Gold strolled around the table to grip Emma's wrist, and plucking the kerchief from his pocket, created a tourniquet for her wound. Henry was fast at his heels, suspicious of how the pawnbroker behaved in all dealings with his mother.

"Thanks."

Emma's voice was dry, and her tone almost sardonic. With the three of them in her immediate space, her reflex was to lean backwards in her chair and wonder at their indefatigable attentiveness. It occurred to her that they might continue to hover there, unless she could divert them.

"What were you saying before?"

"The gala. I was hoping you would attend. That is, if you are willing to overlook the recent animosity between us-"

"Right. We'll be there. When is it?"

Mary Margaret gawked at Emma and then bustled around the kitchen and dining space, continuing to tidy up. Mr. Gold smiled temperately and she found herself irked by him—a slight twitch of the facial muscles and he would be sneering.

"This Saturday, at The Lakeside Ballroom. Seven o'clock. "

With a dragging step, Mr. Gold reluctantly withdrew from the apartment, nodding farewell to everyone, though his eyes never deviated from Ms. Swan. When he departed, Henry whipped around and promptly began to hound his mother.

"Why did you agree to go to the party? You know he can't be trusted! You know he's dangerous!"

"That's exactly why I plan to go. I want to find out more about him. I've been here for months, and I still don't know what his deal is. One day he's trying to befriend me, and the next he's having a psychotic break and beating up some poor old man for stealing his pottery. "

"You'll have to wear a dress, you realize." Mary Margaret interjected, looking critical. "Do you have a dress?"

Emma's brow crinkled and she stuttered, "N-No. But so what? I'll buy one."

"We'll go shopping when I get home later."

"You're coming with me? Does that mean you don't trust me to pick out something appropriate?"

"It means that this is a perfect opportunity for me to play dress-up. After all, I am Snow White. Doesn't that automatically make me some kind of an expert on ball gowns? And if you're my kid, I can't allow you to show up to a gala in jeans and a t-shirt. What will the other fairytale princesses think?"

Henry perked up while he listened to their banter, like a puppy that was delighting in having his ears scratched.

It had only been a few weeks since Emma informed Mary Margaret of Henry's theories regarding her lineage, but it had automatically become the mechanism by which they executed several jokes. Mary Margaret felt it necessary to bring some levity into the conversation, especially after the seriousness of the previous night and the circumstances of the morning.

"Fine. You can help me pick out a dress, but nothing with frills or ruffles," Emma laughed as she headed for the bathroom.

"I need to get ready for work."

* * *

><p>A half hour later, the trio left the apartment and marched up the street to Granny's diner, where they piled into a booth and ordered pancakes. The place smelled like spices and baked goods, and sizzling bacon. While they waited, Henry constructed a house out of sugar packets and the containers of jelly that held individual servings.<p>

"I ruined our breakfast. This is my treat," Emma insisted.

Mary Margaret would have put up a fight, but she was staring across the diner with hazy, unfocused eyes.

David Nolan occupied a stool at the end of the counter; he was flipping through a library book and only paused to take big bites of toast or to sip his coffee. With the colder season approaching, he had taken to wearing plaid flannel shirts and water resistant hiking boots, but there was one thing that had not changed about how he dressed: he still wore a wedding band.

As soon as David finished his breakfast, he rose and whirled around, arrested by the sight of Mary Margaret. Even when Ruby nearly collided with him, his gaze was fixed on every part of her—that graceful neck, the dimple of her cheek, the curvature of her ear, and the faint glimmer of light that was like dappled sunshine in the forest of her eyes. He took long strides to her, and when he arrived at her side, he inhaled a shuddering breath.

The scar on his chin added character to his smile, and because he smiled at her now, she was unable to account for how he was suddenly standing next to their booth. Their eyes connected with a magnetic energy that caused Mary Margaret's limbs to tingle and her heart to run at a rebellious pace. His proximity rendered her speechless and she struggled to intake air, flailing while her brain fought to re-oxygenate.

"Mr. Nolan."

Emma greeted him, but her eyes and body language transmitted a not-so-subtle warning.

If he understood the warning, David showed no signs of it: he acknowledged both Emma and Henry by tipping his hat and then rotated his bashful blues towards Mary Margaret.

"How are you, David?"

Mary Margaret's pitch was uneven, but she shared a significant look with Emma, which she hoped would reassure her.

"I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"

"Oh, you know, hungry."

It took David a moment before he noticed that Ruby was patiently waiting for him to move. He obliged her by stumbling aside, and she grinned at him as she served the group, batting eyelashes that were heavily laden with mascara. When she sashayed away, he coughed and scratched his arm to detract attention from the pigmentation of his cheeks.

"Mary Margaret, I-"

"Mary Margaret," Dr. Whale echoed him and cut him off. "You look lovely this morning."

The doctor's dull, gray stare reminded Mary Margaret of all the charcoal drawings she had ever seen. His eyes were the color of slate and had the same dense qualities; his angular chin could only have been the effect of a carefully guided but incisively sharp pencil. He pulled a pink chiffon scarf from the interior of his jacket and gave it to her.

"This is yours."

Dr. Whale was the type who could not keep his arrogance in check and allowed it to influence his every action and reaction. He made no effort to speak to anyone else and was hardly aware that his grin betrayed his unflattering overconfidence. Another man might have taken notice of his competition, but he paid no mind to David Nolan. Instead he put a familiar hand on Mary Margaret's shoulder, proceeding right to the matter of business that called for him to seek her out.

"I was wondering if you have a date for Mr. Gold's annual event."

Mary Margaret blushed.

"Oh, no. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about staying home…"

"Nonsense. I'll pick you up at 6:30."

It was difficult for her to resist smiling at the invitation. It was difficult for her to resist smiling in general. Her heart was beating steady quarter notes instead of playing staccato the way it did for David, but she believed there could be growth in a relationship with Dr. Whale. There was no certainty of a future with David Nolan, even if she loved him.

She nodded to indicate that she would go with Dr. Whale, though her eyes wandered to David, where they remained transfixed. Pain filtered into her face, swirling there brightly for him to see—as obvious as dye poured into a glass of clear water.

It had been a mistake to kiss David in the middle of town. It was a mistake because neither of them knew what it meant, and after the passing of more than a week, nothing had changed. A kiss could only be a catalyst in a fairytale. Their kisses did not have the power to wake the dead or to transform a frog into a king. Their kisses had no power at all.

It happened on a morning much like this one, outside of the diner. It was intense, with the wind spiraling around them, their mouths exchanging heat. The sole outcome of that kiss was that their interactions became less fluid, and their relationship more complicated. Their secret meetings and subsequent kisses were inadequate—moments of pure passion without promise or commitment.

It was a shock to Mary Margaret when David interrupted her thoughts, inserting himself into the conversation with renewed bravado.

"Haven't you heard? It's a masquerade ball. Half the fun is that you meet there and seek each other out."

David was eyeing Dr. Whale as if the man had challenged him, and all of his muscles instinctually clenched. He arranged a fake, tight-lipped smile on his face, which he gradually replaced with a genuine one.

Mary Margaret's forehead crinkled and it was evident she was bothered by his willingness to interfere. All of her previous thoughts were gone from her, the pain extinguished from her eyes like a flame stomped out by invisible feet.

What happened next only riled her more: Dr. Whale nodded in agreement, mistaking Mr. Nolan's blatant act of sabotage for a helpful bit of advice.

"I suppose I'll meet you there, then."

Before she could protest, Dr. Whale bid them farewell and exited the diner, and all she could hear were the bells on the door as they clattered in his wake. Complacency was something she had never witnessed on David Nolan, but she experienced an unnerving feeling of déjà vu when he crossed his arms and grinned. This behavior was not out of the ordinary to her, but she could not recall a time when he acted so crass.

"I'm sure I'll see you at the party, too. Have a good day, Mary Margaret."

He politely bowed his head to her, and then smiled at her two companions. "Emma, Henry—have a good day."

"See you around, Mr. Nolan." Henry smiled up at him, eyes aglow with his usual warmth.

When Mr. Nolan had gone, Mary Margaret breathed and looked from her cold heap of pancakes over at Emma.

"Well, that was-"

"Intriguing?" Emma suggested that adjective because it had neither a positive or negative connotation. It was vague enough to be safe.

"Infuriating."

Henry reasoned that they would not talk in front of him unless they wanted him to be privy to what they were saying. He propped his head on his hand and frowned rather severely for a ten year old, deciding to bring up the topic that he had been ruminating over since the moment Mary Margaret made those playful remarks about her identity and her inborn talent for selecting ball gowns.

"You've acknowledged that you're Snow White." His voice was tremulous and soft, but ardent in a way that demanded respect. "Can't you remember anything about Mr. Nolan? He _is _Prince Charming, but he hasn't realized it yet. If you could just try to remember…"

"Henry."

An uncomfortable silence passed between them as Emma gently attempted to derail him, even though all she did was say his name once and raise her eyebrows. Henry stared eagerly at Mary Margaret, but dropped his gaze when he saw she was upset.

Mary Margaret did not have to feign distress, though Emma immediately assumed that she was over exaggerating for Henry's sake.

When Mary Margaret caught the look that Henry was giving her, she felt responsible and guilty—she should never have jested that she was Snow White. It was her fault that the boy was disappointed, but it was odd when she considered her own sentiments on the matter—she was disappointed, too.

_If only she was Snow White.  
><em>

_If only she had a Prince Charming._

_And Emma—if only she had been raised by loving parents._

_If only…_

Her senses suddenly confounded her: she conflated smells and sounds and images, and her clarity sank below that wave of synesthesia.

There was the aroma of sweets, the raspy baritone of a handsome stranger, the gurgling of a warm bundle—a baby—in her arms.

She shook her head as if she was emerging from below the surf and then offered them a dry smile. The memories had already trickled away from her.

"I don't remember anything, Henry. I'm sorry."

"That's okay," he replied, good-natured as always. "Some day you will."

Mary Margaret heard the tinkle of the bell on the door, but as she was still recovering, she did not lift her head to see who had entered the diner.

Emma spotted Regina in her peripheral vision—a black-and-white blur of stylish couture and acute angles—both chic and cruel. The mayor's unmistakably stiff posture was one of many outward manifestations of her intractable disposition, but her trademark was her fear-inspiring snarl.

On any other morning, Ms. Swan would have been equipped with witty words meant to disarm or demean her enemy, but she slumped lower in her seat as she realized that this morning was different from all other mornings she had spent in Storybrooke. She and Regina had come to an agreement, if not an understanding of one another: if she did not choose to stay away from Henry by her own volition, then the mayor would press charges against her to ensure she kept her distance.

Though Emma had informed Henry of a need for discretion, and though she told him of the likelihood that they would have to remain apart for a while, it was difficult to impose that separation upon him. They had gone days without seeing each other because Henry had a holiday from school, and there was no excuse to extricate himself from Regina, who had planned his schedule carefully so as to allow for no free time. Emma had spent her days sorting through documents at work, or observing him from afar while he played outdoors, unwilling to think about when she might see him next on Regina's new terms.

When he showed up at the apartment earlier that morning, she had not mulled over the consequences of a short visit, for two reasons: foremost, Mary Margaret was Henry's teacher, and she could argue that he was there to see her. Second and more significantly, she missed him. After a decade without her son, it was tough to endure even a few days without his company.

Now, Regina stalked towards the booth with feline, predatory grace. She loomed above Emma, crossed her arms in a knot over her chest, and assessed the scene in front of her with rising anger. Rockets were set to launch in the starless midnight of her eyes, and they seemed to spark as she abruptly lashed out and smacked the tabletop with a force that made the silverware clatter. Her contralto was an octave lower than usual, her voice deepened by the growl in her throat.

"What don't you understand, Ms. Swan? I continuously remind you that you are not allowed to see _my_ son unless I give you permission to see him, and here you are ignoring my request. You've left me with no other option. Expect to hear from my lawyer."

Just as Emma opened her mouth to deliver a biting retort, Mary Margaret interceded with a recycled lie:

"That won't be necessary. Henry came by this morning to help me prepare for the science fair." Her fingers toyed with a stray sugar packet, as she continued her explanation. "We're making volcanoes. In order to do that, we need papier-mâché and baking soda and art supplies. He volunteered to pick up the materials and bring them to school. I can't carry everything by myself."

"If he stopped by to help you, what is he doing here?"

"Well, it is breakfast time."

"He's already eaten his breakfast. At home. With me."

Henry looked like a deflating balloon that was leaking air and becoming progressively less buoyant. He shrank against Emma, and his eyelids drooped to conceal the conflicting emotions that were on display in his eyes—he felt uneasy because he had been caught, but he was also incorrigible and unapologetic.

Resignedly, Regina turned to her son and beckoned to him. Even though he avoided glancing directly at her, Henry had the impression that if he did not comply, she would resume threatening Emma. He touched his mother's arm as she withdrew from the booth and then crawled over the seat, getting up far slower than a young boy should.

Regina commanded him:

"Wait for me outside."

Before departing, the mayor trained her sights on Emma, fixing her in place with a triumphantly wicked smile.

"You should know that I already went through the trouble of contacting my lawyer. He's in the process of petitioning the states of Arizona and Massachusetts for access to all of your personal files. We'll have the full transcript from your court proceedings, the documents pertaining to Henry's birth, and information on all of your foster placements. I also hired a private investigator to find Henry's biological father, because I don't believe the story you told him, not even for a minute. I think that man is out there, alive and well. And whatever you've done in your past—_whoever_ you've done—you can bet it will reflect poorly on your character should I ever bring you to trial. I _will _keep you away from my son, Ms. Swan—even if I must get a restraining order to do it."

Emma's response was visceral rather than verbal, and it was fortunate for her that the mayor did not loiter around to see the full effect of that threat. She wilted back into the booth and hung her head, inexplicably nauseated. There was a quick parade of emotions that played across her countenance—and while fear and hurt were the most prominent in the procession—the grand finale was rage. Without warning, Emma pitched forward and hit the table, balling her fist as she struck the hard surface.

Her anger transformed her solemn features, until she managed to restore some semblance of her self-control and stare calmly ahead. She shed a single tear, but flung it away as if it was a bug that had landed on her cheek after a haphazard flight.

"Wow. This table is really taking a beating today," Mary Margaret commented, but she reached out to take Emma's hand.

"Legally she can't do this—I mean, what if she—"

"I'm sure she's just making idle threats because she's run out of clever ideas to get to you. Even if she gets a hold of the records, what could happen? You're already the sheriff here. Henry already worships you."

"Don't talk to me as if you think I have nothing to lose. I have everything to lose."

"I know what's at stake. Emma, I have to ask. Why did you—how did you—"

"_Don't._ You're going to be late for work. You won't have enough time to hear the whole sob story, and frankly, I'd rather you didn't know everything about me."

Emma pulled a handful of bills from her wallet and tossed them down by her plate before lumbering up from her seat. Collected and more clear-headed, she made her retreat at a pace she knew Mary Margaret would not attempt to rival—up the street and towards her yellow Volkswagen.

* * *

><p>"I'd rather you didn't know everything about me," Regina intoned.<p>

Realizing how that might sound, she spoke in a gentler voice, adding: "Why, you're a young girl—you'd fall asleep listening to me ramble on about myself."

"Y-you married my father," Snow stuttered. "I just thought we should get better acquainted."

The queen occupied the centermost chair in the room, facing the fireplace. It should have been a relaxed atmosphere, since they were alone in the den and had already changed into their dressing gowns—yet it seemed that no matter the environment, the queen behaved the same. Her affectation was a sort of make-up that smudged only when she was indiscreet, and since the day that Snow White was introduced to her stepmother, the older woman had never permitted herself to be indiscreet. She maintained her stately repose, with an undercurrent of disdain that was detectable only in her tone and occasionally in the outline of her face, or the twitching of her lip. Though her attire was appropriate for their private chambers, she appeared as regal as ever she did—as majestic as when she was situated in front of the assemblage of the court, draped in rich fabrics and stunning jewels.

Snow White sat adjacent to the queen, her hands clasped demurely in her lap.

"Why don't you tell me something about yourself, dear child?"

"Oh—well, alright," she smiled agreeably, pausing momentarily to think. "Let me tell you the story about a man that I knew—a prince who was transformed into a bear. You see, it happened when he met an evil dwarf—"

"I am sure that story is delightful—but I am more interested in hearing about _your_ life."

"My life isn't very interesting," Snow sighed, while her eyes skipped towards the crackling fire. Then she reached into her robes, drawing out a hand-knit cap.

"The truth is, I came to speak to you for another reason. I hope you will not be angry with me, but I found this the other day, in the garden. I wondered if it might belong to you."

At first Regina was impassive, but when she spied the cap, her reflex was to wrench it out of the young woman's hands. With a gasp, Snow White relinquished her find and then goggled at her stepmother.

"Thank you for returning it to me," she said after a long while, somehow mustering the strength it required to talk.

"You're welcome."

The queen forced herself to swallow and blink, a method of disabling a more pathetic physical response: she was in danger of crying, and it infuriated her.

The younger woman swept across the short distance between them and knelt in front of Regina.

"Did you see—"

"Yes," Snow replied.

As soon as she confirmed, the queen flipped the cap around and ran her finger along the lining. Letters were embroidered on the flap, stitched in gold.

"He would have been named after his grandfather, but I chose not to name him at all. He was—such a beautiful child. I would do anything to have him back. "

"You might yet have a son. Does my father know about him-the babe that you lost?"

Regina stared down at Snow, incensed by the girl's meddlesome proposal and by her own carelessness, which had resulted in these unwelcome intrusions into her personal life.

"_No_. Your father is _never_ to know."

"Why keep such a secret?"

"I have consulted a visionary. Your father will never love me if he learns that I have lost a child. I promised him a male heir when we wed, but I shall have no more children."

"My father is an honorable man. I am sure his first concern would be to console you. It must be an awful thing, never to have your own children."

"He is the last person I would want to console me, and I assure you, I do not want your pity."

There was bitterness on the queen's tongue and Snow knew that the woman was withholding important details from her. She was particularly confused by the scathing remark about her father, since his reputation for compassion was widely known. It could be inferred that the child was born out of wedlock, some time before Regina married the king, yet it seemed that the older woman blamed him for her misfortune.

"Why do you feel that way? Why wouldn't you want your husband to comfort you, and for me to share your sorrow?"

"You are completely naïve. How can you expect me to explain my feelings to you? You will never understand what it is like to be married to a man who is in love with someone else! It's no matter that _she_ is gone from this world and unable to reciprocate his love—your father still loves y-your mother! And you-_you_ will never understand what it is like to hold a baby in your arms, knowing that is the only moment you will hold him before you are separated forever! Your only chance for happiness—_ripped from you_!"

Snow White sat in dumbfounded silence for several minutes, and then tested her voice by coughing quietly. As she was about to speak, she was halted by the sound of approaching voices.

Commotion and jolly laughter preceded the king, and when he came into view, his eyes were bright with mirth. He was trailed by a quartet of sprightly servants that danced nimbly into the room.

The king's robe was long and heavy, rimmed with fur around the collar and tied with a silver cord that was hidden by his beard. He beckoned his wife from the doorway, but then noticed his daughter and shuffled over to kiss her on the cheek.

"Snow, I did not expect to find you in here; you ought to get some rest, my sweet darling. Come now, Regina. It is time for bed."

Like a leashed pet, the queen trotted after her husband, keeping her head down. She did not respond to him, or nod, or even glance at him.

When the couple was gone, Snow frowned thoughtfully and threw another log on the hearth to tend the flame.


	3. Fate

WARNINGS: **VIOLENCE, SEX. **

* * *

><p>"What will you trade me, dolly?"<p>

Mist shrouded the island and concealed the queen's panting breath as she secured her boat. The dock sloped underneath her feet as she stepped close to Rumpelstiltskin, and he grabbed her neck by way of greeting, raking his nails in a loop below her chin and down to her clavicle. Their garments made them neutral presences in the darkness—two spots of black ink on a black scrap of paper. This was clearly his domain, but unlike most other visitors who solicited his help, Regina was in her element there. The nighttime was perpetual on those shores, and the storms ever-present.

"This," she purred, taking an amulet from the interior of her dress.

Rumpelstiltskin snatched the treasure and squinted at it, first shutting one eye and then the other, as if it would make all the difference in how he assessed the value of the item. It was a necklace worth a considerable amount of gold, but it lacked magical properties. He grinned to set her at ease, and then chucked the amulet at her head, with perfect aim.

"Worthless," he giggled, marching around. Then he paused, once again invading her personal space. "Come now, my pretty. You didn't actually think I would accept that, now did you?"

Regina drew herself up to her full height, braced to endure his further rejections. Only her eyes moved after him, while the rest of her was solid and unyielding to his criticisms.

"Tell me what you want."

With his hands on her shoulders, Rumpestiltskin cast penetrating eyes on her, and smiled cheerlessly.

"I sense you are a woman with little to give, but surely there must be something you love—some object you hold dear to your heart."

At length, the queen offered him the little cap, producing it from the same pocket in which she stored the amulet. Her thumb brushed the embroidery, but she did not trust herself to look at it.

"A wishing cap," he hissed, seizing it from her. "Oh, yes, this will do."

Though he had already taken his prize, Regina left her hand outstretched to remind him of what she wanted in return.

"So impatient. So eager for revenge." Rumpelstiltskin chuckled. Belatedly, he fetched the object she desired, dropping it into her palm.

"What can it do?"

It was no more than a tiny snow globe-a child's toy. She scrutinized the miniature village within the orb, the swirling liquid in which it was submerged.

"The better question is: what do you want it to do?"

"When I was young, a prince traveled to my homeland. Recently peace has been restored to the country, but for decades, there was war. The prince arrived at the head of an army, and took a wife from my kingdom. She was beautiful and young, and proud. She was _my mother._" The queen swallowed her discomfort and pain, and smiled through it."My father, of course, was away when this happened. I was left alone, without anyone to protect me. The drunken soldiers were willing to look after a little orphan girl, but they were hardly suitable guardians."

Her features were steel as she told the story in a humorless tone. Every muscle in her body was taut, as if this was a confrontation with someone corporeal, and not merely a confrontation with the past.

"I found myself with child, but in that environment, infection is rampant. My son died an hour after he took his first breath." She hesitated to go on, and glanced at Rumpelstiltskin—he was more nocturnal creature than man, and yet she registered a guarded sympathy in his eyes.

"Years later, the prince returned to seek a second wife. By then he was a king, withered away by age, but still recognizable as the same man who took away everything I held dear. He found himself attracted to me-perhaps unknowingly for the same reasons he was attracted to my mother."

As she concluded, she jutted her chin and wrapped her arms defensively in front of her.

"I want—retribution. I want the king to suffer. I want his daughter—my half sister—to know the sorrows I have known."

"Such a-"

There were many words he could have chosen to describe the tale, and his mind flitted through a brief inventory of possibilities: it was tragic, heartrending and loathsome. All of these words fit interchangeably into the context and he could have easily selected from the list, but he did not.

Instead, his expression shifted into something comical, his eyes popping as he changed course, beating back the moment of humanity. He over-enunciated, giddily:

"Such a dysfunctional fam-i-ly."

"I should have known you'd be amused by my misfortune and woe!"

His smile faded at the accusation, and he rubbed the stubble on his cheek before looking directly at her. A hush fell over them, and he seemed to be caressing her with his eyes, soothing her with a temporary silence, which he broke with poetry.

"_O fortune_, variable as the moon, always dost thou wax and wane. Monstrous and empty fate-to thy cruel pleasure, I bare my back."

He took her hand in a gesture that could not be construed as a show of fealty, and reeled her into him, just as a thundercloud burst overhead. His speech was puzzling, layered in meaning, and his actions were similarly enigmatic. Rumpelstiltskin pressed a scroll into her hand, breathing heavily against her face.

"It is the darkest of curses," he instructed her. "It will bring about the misery of your enemies by giving you power over their fate. To use such a spell, you must sacrifice what you love most in this world. Do that, and you will have your sweet vengeance."

A torrential downpour saturated them as they parted, stumbling away from each other like forbidden lovers in the aftermath of a tryst.

* * *

><p>It was late afternoon, and Emma had called her roommate to notify her that she would be home in time to go dress shopping. Not exactly an apology for her earlier behavior, but her guilt was perceptible in how she quavered when she left a message on voicemail. It was not like Mary Margaret to ignore phone calls, but it was probable she had stayed at school for a meeting with the other fifth grade teachers, or to provide extra help for a struggling student. Either that, or she had snuck off to see Mr. Nolan and was otherwise indisposed. It was no secret to Emma that the two were involved, in spite of how they treated each other in public, but she would wait until Mary Margaret confided in her before verbalizing her opinions about the situation. Until then, she would concern herself only with matters at hand; currently she was more worried about the damage she might have done to their friendship than the potential calamities that could result from Mary Margaret's budding relationship with David Nolan.<p>

Though Emma spent the better part of the day at her office, she had been out walking in the cold for the last hour and had ended up on the far side of town. It was not that she was avoiding going home, but when she thought about it, she had no other justification for her aimless wanderings.

Preoccupied with Regina's threats, and with her own harsh words to Mary Margaret replaying in her mind, she tugged her floppy hat lower on her face, and shuffled onward. A puff of wind struck her and stole the hat, shoving her back like a bully. It was then that she discerned the numbness in her face and limbs, and the sky grayed over Storybrooke. A winter storm blanketed the street in white.

* * *

><p>The pawnshop smelled of Mr. Gold's aftershave and years of collected dust. Snowflakes hurried in after Emma and settled in her flaxen curls, catching the light from every lamp in the room. Any onlooker would have glimpsed a halo in her hair, but the image was lost as the ice dissolved into nothingness. She stomped her feet to remove powdery snow from her boots, treaded cautiously over the threshold, and peeled off the pair of damp mittens she had borrowed weeks ago from Mary Margaret. Her fingers stung as she flexed them to restore circulation.<p>

She had never come to the pawnshop without some definitive purpose, but she was thoroughly chilled and no other stores in the vicinity were open for business. Unaware that she was trembling, she advanced towards a wall where guitars and ukuleles were suspended by wires.

Mr. Gold smiled wolfishly when he noted she was shaking.

He was skewering her with his eyes, standing with his palms pressed flat on top of a showcase. On the counter to his immediate right was a jar that contained clear liquid, and he screwed the cap onto it before peering back at her. There was something purely cannibalistic about the way he regarded her now, and in how he crept towards her, encroaching with measured movements. He might well have been pondering what it would be like to lick the meat on her ribs and suck on her tender young neck.

"What a pleasure it is to see you twice in one day, Em-_ma_. Or do you prefer that I call you Ms. Swan? I don't believe I ever asked your preference."

Emma whipped around with adrenaline-induced speed that accompanies being taken by surprise.

"I don't care what you call me," she spat, with an unexpected dose of venom that shocked them both.

He often gazed at her in a manner she considered marginally unsettling, but she had never witnessed him like this—consumed by impulses and appetites that were entirely too transparent.

"Are you looking for something in particular, _Ms. Swan_? Or is this a social visit?"

As he returned to favored formalities and employed the use of her surname, he became less menacing in appearance. He circled around the counter and smiled at her almost dotingly, making the transition from savage to courteous proprietor in fewer than five seconds.

"I was taking a walk and I got cold. Figured I'd stop in and look around. I'm usually here because of work. Never got the opportunity to browse," she spluttered the excuse, even as goose bumps rose visibly on her arms and emerged unseen down the length of her spine. It was toasty in the shop, but she shivered and her teeth chattered; she felt colder now than she had during her stroll. "I should go."

"Now, dearie, don't be in such a rush. If I remember correctly, you owe me a favor. Come and have some tea."

"_Tea_? You've kept me in suspense for months, wondering what you might want in return for our little business arrangement, and now you want to have a tea party?"

Unwilling to confirm or deny it, Mr. Gold simply adjusted his grip on his cane and ushered her towards the back of the shop, where a kettle was whistling. Within the small space, there was an old fashioned stove, a sofa with floral upholstery and three mismatched chairs pulled close together. Baffled and yet somewhat intrigued, Emma sank against the sofa, choosing that location because it afforded her the best view of the room.

Mr. Gold lowered teabags into two mugs, poured the water and then mixed in a drizzling drop of honey. The spoon tinkled against the china, mesmerizing in its cyclonic spin.

"I think we ought to get better acquainted," he said, shooting her a look that incapacitated her.

She gaped at him stupidly and the muscle in her throat constricted, her tongue lazy and uncooperative.

Her vision darkened suddenly and it was like being underground in a tunnel without outlet. Colors sped by faster than headlights, and her eyes whirled rapidly after every red-yellow-orange-blue blur. She recoiled as though suffering from motion sickness, bombarded by the sensory overload.

"Oh, nothing like that," Mr. Gold asserted, reckoning she might misunderstand his intentions.

Emma felt paralyzed, and yet simultaneously she became conscious of scratching her own arm, clawing off the makeshift bandage Mr. Gold had generously supplied that morning. When she actually glanced down at the piece of cloth, it was still wrapped neatly over the wound. A pleasant tingling spread from the source of injury and into her veins, funneling into her belly where it churned and comingled with panic. Disoriented and desperate, she swayed forward in an attempt to stand, but found she was without coordination.

Mr. Gold hobbled over and propped her upright, posing her like a jointed dolly in a storeroom window.

"Feeling nice, love? Here, drink this."

His hand lingered on the mug as she accepted it from him, and when she hesitated to drink, he persistently elevated it to her lips. Subdued, she gave him liberty to tip her chin up and slosh some of the hot liquid into her mouth. She swallowed as he stroked her cheek, breathed easy as he tangled his fingers through the mop of her hair, and sighed sleepily as he helped her to lie down.

"Are you tired?"

She nodded with the certainty of an exhausted child, rolling on her side while he tended her. The hum of his voice was pacifying, and her eyelashes shuttered halfway, eclipsing his face. He leaned nearer, twirling one of her curls before slipping it behind her ear, and petting her possessively.

"How about a bedtime story, hm?"

Emma whined in response, but as he continued his ministrations, she quieted.

"Shh, shh. That's a good girl. That's a good darling."

The column of her throat was exposed as Mr. Gold un-zippered her jacket, and a thrill coursed through him as she shifted her head into his lap. A part of her needed this perverse comfort, he suspected. He cradled her while he searched her person, exploring her pockets and bare skin with the same meticulous care.

"You are quite the beauty."

Immersed in her tranquil haze, she blinked up at him, feeling the ghost of his touch above her brow. A scar had attracted his eye to the spot, and he traced the marred flesh with his thumb, curious as to how it got there. He appreciated the blemish because it revitalized his drive to uncover the rest of her weaknesses. Every flaw could be exploited and used to his advantage.

"Oh, Emma," he crooned softly, snuffling in a breath. "In the tragedy that fate has written for you, there could be no better heroine. Even your imperfections are exquisite."

He looped his fingers under her shirt and tugged it up to her midsection. Unbuttoning her jeans, he pushed the material down until he caught sight of it. Inked above her hip, there was a bird engulfed in flame that looked realistic enough to sear her flesh. Aghast, he yanked at her pants for a second time and examined the full detail of the icon, dragging his nails over it. Unquestionably it was the object of his search, but he was unprepared for the moment of discovery. It was a clue that at once satisfied his most secret longings and reawakened his deepest miseries.

Emma cried out pitifully, and he gave her a shove in warning.

In spite of how he looked at Emma, he had never premeditated an attack against her. Tonight he had merely wanted to conduct an investigation, though his methods were nothing short of abominable. When her mewling continued undisturbed, he tried to distance himself from her, but he could not stopper the surge of his emotions. He launched into a maddened frenzy, throwing teacups at her prone body, hurling his cane as though it was a javelin, and shredding her clothing.

Incoherently he barked an order, and because she was unresponsive, he smacked her. Sweat formed on his forehead and dripped onto the floor as he beat her into a protracted silence. The electric failed and the power went out, the lights flickering only once before they dimmed and died, succumbing to the strength of the storm. Like a vandal spraying graffiti all over an immaculate wall, he effaced her in the darkness.

* * *

><p>A knock at the door stirred Mary Margaret from her sewing and from her romantic reverie. She tried to preserve the waking dream, but her thoughts scampered away faster than frightened rabbits, gone before she could re-capture them.<p>

Scraps of fabric tumbled from her lap as she stood, falling in a scattered arrangement on the floor. They were patches of a quilt she was making for Emma, each square a varying shade of red or gold. It was a gift she planned to give for no special occasion-an idea that had come to her when she realized it would be a particularly frigid winter. The project was halfway complete, and she admired her own progress before turning and traversing through the apartment.

Much to the opposite of what her roommate believed, Mary Margaret was not offended by Emma's earlier rudeness, despite how she failed to answer her phone. She was sensitive to Emma's need for privacy, even though she wished her friend would trust her. For Emma, sharing her painful memories was tantamount to withdrawing the defenses around a castle that was under siege. In Mary Margaret's case, it was natural to trust, to put her faith in the people she loved.

The knock came again, but this time it was more of a frantic pounding. Mary Margaret smiled prematurely as she went to meet the visitor, trying to anticipate who it might be. If Emma had forgotten her keys again, she plotted to tease her and convince her to try on a billowy pink dress as punishment. That is, of course, if the storm did not prevent them from going on their shopping excursion.

As she opened the door, she was instantly flustered, and had to clutch the wall to stabilize herself.

David Nolan was poised to knock for a third time, his shoulders hunched to ward off the cold. He was flushed from being outdoors for too long and he stared at her in earnest, awaiting some signal. The overcoat he wore was thin and damp from the inclement weather, and in a gloved fist, he brandished a bundle of flowers that was frosted over with snowflakes.

Mary Margaret delayed granting him entry, but when she did, she swapped her darning equipment for the bouquet of white roses he held, and marched into the kitchen. With the unfamiliar instruments now in his hands, David expelled a deep sigh and went after her.

"I left Katherine," he announced.

"What do you mean, _you left her_?"

"I moved out around lunchtime," he told her, eyes wide with emotion. "You and I, we're meant to be together. I won't call it fate, but it's this feeling I can't shake."

At that clarification, she tilted her head sideways and grinned at him, then squealed her approval. The flowers were abandoned in a vase without water, and she chucked the pincushion and spool of thread in the general direction of her pistachio green sewing desk. David did not protest when she took the items from him, glad to be able to catch her when she jumped into his arms. Her legs twined around his back, and her lips parted as their mouths crashed together, just enough for him to slip his tongue inside of her. Undoing the toggles on his jacket, she moaned against his throat and then against his ear.

"What are you doing?" He asked.

"Undressing you. You could help, you know."

Their smiles came together in another kiss, and she sucked on his bottom lip even as he tried to speak.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Oh, god,_ yes_."

"I guess you've had time to think about it."

"Too much time. Less talking, more kissing."

"As you wish."

The lights halted them momentarily as they blinked on and off. Blindly she stripped him of his shirt, and pressed herself into his well-defined chest. His body heat caused her nipples to become taut, and he palmed her breast through the apron she wore, pinching one of the pliant buds.

"Power outage," she groaned, finally accepting that the electricity was not coming back on.

"Candles?" He demanded, with urgency in his voice.

"In the bedroom."

"What a coincidence," he mused. "That happens to be where we're going."

Avoiding an obstacle of boxes, he carried her to the bedroom and deposited her on the mattress before retrieving the matches, cleverly making use of the glow from his cell phone to guide him. They both kicked off their shoes and socks, and stretched out like a pair of kids at a slumber party. For a while they sat in the dark, their fingers interlaced as they kissed.

When the lavender scented candle on her nightstand was lit, he reverently plucked the string on her apron and loosened it. He removed it carefully, and then his fingers worked at the buttons on her blouse, popping them open. She grew shy as she watched him, but the look he gave her unleashed butterflies of arousal in her stomach. He behaved as though each article of her clothing was decorative wrapping meant to be salvaged, until she laid there in nothing but her panties.

As he dipped his head between the swell of her breasts, he gripped her knees and pushed them apart, keeping her legs divided before inserting himself there as a barrier. Both of his hands dropped to her hips, and he pulled her panties to the side, skimming his fingers through her wetness. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he nuzzled her center, his tongue siphoning her sweetness while his thumb hooked that last remaining scrap of lace, yanking the panties further down her thighs.

The metal buckle on his pants left an imprint on her belly when he moved to kiss her, his mouth suctioning and steamy. She groaned into him, fought to free him of his belt, and then tugged his jeans and boxers down over his ass. While he trailed his lips down her neck, she groped around for a condom, finding one hidden away in the bottom of her drawer. He took the small foil packet from her, and sheathed his length in latex. Their eyes met as he rubbed the stiff head of his cock up and down through the moisture at her core, spreading her to accept his thickness. Her body arched under David's as he penetrated her with a gentle forward thrust, uniting them at last. Enveloped by a heady euphoria, the couple rocked together until they were bathed in a varnish of sweat. David plunged deeper, enfolding her in his arms as he accelerated his thrusts and grunted softly. Their hearts competed in a race, quickening as they felt their minds drifting, concentrating on the imminent rush of pleasure. Her inner muscles rapidly convulsed and squeezed him, and she was overwhelmed by the prolonged climax, having to bite back blissful tears. His body jerked hard and then he was spilling himself inside of her, digging his fingers into the cushion behind her back and gasping.

"_You_," he panted with conviction.

There was a lucid gleam in his vivid blue eyes. They were the ideal hue for an artist to use in a sunny seascape.

"It's—you," he reaffirmed.

"Of course it's me," she smiled.

"I love you."

She leaned forward then and kissed him because she wanted to taste those words on his lips.

In the hushed aftermath of their lovemaking, as they embraced under a tent of blankets, the power was reset.


	4. Forget

**WARNINGS:** Violence.

Note: Made some edits to this. Posted prematurely because I got over zealous.

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><p>A tendril of smoke traveled up from the extinguished candle and spiraled towards the ceiling as they dressed with languorously slow movements. Mary Margaret claimed David's button-down shirt, but because Emma was due to come home, she thought better of wearing it. If she was honest with herself, there was another, more abstruse reason that she hesitated, touching her finger to the rumpled shirt.<p>

From the outset of that night, it seemed a tenuous shift in their relationship was inevitable, but she could never have anticipated that David would profess his love to her. On any given day it was impossible to predict what David would do, and because Mary Margaret had never understood the depth of his conflicting feelings, she felt an unbidden stab of worry that he could change his mind. On another occasion, in another lifetime, she might have taken her happiness for granted on a night like this, but instead she was keenly attuned to the delicacy of the bond between herself and David Nolan.

She rebuked her thoughts before they bloomed with the bright, all-encompassing clarity of yellow dandelion weeds—before she was completely inundated with doubt.

"Why don't you open a bottle of wine?" Mary Margaret urged. It was rare that she drank, but she hoped the alcohol would settle her.

Clad only in his jeans, David went into the kitchen, and poured them both a drink, while she dawdled in front of the mirror. Mary Margaret shrugged into her pajama top and combed her fingers through her cropped hair until she felt she was presentable. Her nightclothes were monogrammed with the letters MM, but they were inadequately thin, and somehow bespoke her tendency to focus on minor charms over practicality. She wondered if her taste in wardrobe applied at all to her taste in men.

As Mary Margaret started for the kitchen, she heard the latch on the front door and made a hasty detour into the foyer as it was flung open. The sight of Emma screamed through her, a torpedo of fear exploding in her gut. A breath of cold air prickled her skin as she dove in to help.

Like a human-crutch, Ruby supported Emma's full body weight as she hauled her into the shelter of the apartment. The waitress felt her lungs burn from the strain, even as Mary Margaret took up her slack and they both transported Emma to a chair. Her braid was unraveling messily down her back, and Ruby could not resist the nervous habit of playing with it while she looked anxiously between Mary Margaret and David.

"I found her like this on the other side of town. I was—visiting a friend." Ruby began, breathless and transparently upset. "Saw her lying in a snow bank."

Emma's hair was plastered to her neck and glued haphazardly to her chin with a blend of crusted blood and dirt. Her eyes were bottomless voids, drained of all vibrancy, and her expression was inscrutable. Apart from her ragged t-shirt and muddy underwear, Emma was dumped without clothing, left naked to the elements. The cold had gnawed at her and dulled the pain, but her anatomy was a topography map of bluish-purple welts, bruises and breakages. She managed a shallow breath as she felt Mary Margaret cover her with an afghan, and was compelled to look up, though she remained unnervingly quiet.

Mary Margaret blinked to suppress oncoming tears, wiping at her nose before gathering Emma in her arms.

"Emma? Hey—can you talk to me? Can you tell me what happened to you?" Although her tone was pleading, Mary Margaret got no answer to her questions, and she glanced helplessly up at David.

An unfamiliar emotion was triggered in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Mary Margaret with Emma in her lap; David felt a burst of devotion to the former woman, and a strangely paternal affection for the latter, combined with an overwhelming desire to protect them both. Whoever had inflicted this harm to Emma was a danger to them all, and if he learned the identity of the assailant, he knew unquestioningly that he would retaliate. He brought the women another blanket and then hovered next to Ruby, with a furrowed brow that betrayed the aggressive nature of his thoughts.

Since talking to Emma proved ineffective, Mary Margaret addressed her inquiries to Ruby.

"Where are her clothes?" She asked impatiently.

"I have no idea," Ruby frowned, idly twisting her dyed hair around her finger. "Someone left her out there to die. Doubt they were concerned about returning her clothes, and I seriously— "

"We need to get her to the hospital," Mary Margaret cut Ruby off, closing her eyes abruptly, as if that would jostle the graphic image out of her head. She pictured Emma sprawled in the ice, battered and lifeless.

"I would have brought her there myself, but the road is closed. No one's going anywhere tonight," Ruby informed them, pointing out the window to where the snow was piled high.

"We have to do—something. She's half frozen and unresponsive. Here, help me get her to the tub. We need to warm her up." Mary Margaret's voice cracked as she gave David the directive.

With Ruby and Mary Margaret at his heels, David carried Emma into the bathroom and placed her in the bathtub, then politely ducked out into the hall.

"I'll wait out here. Let me know if you need anything," David told them, before turning away.

Dizzy and nauseous from the move, Emma hung her head and retched, vomiting bile, toxins and the remnants of food. Drool streaked through layers of blood on her face, and when she coughed, she splattered rust-colored speckles all over tile and Mary Margaret, who was kneeling nearby. Unable to regulate her respiration, Emma began to hyperventilate, and tucked her legs to her chest, coiling into herself.

"Oh, god, Emma," Mary Margaret cried, shaken by what she was witnessing.

"We have to get her body temperature regulated," Ruby reminded her friend, turning the handles on the faucet.

Mary Margaret floundered as a steady stream of hot water filled the tub, but then gingerly dabbed a wet wash towel over Emma's scrapes. Sludge trickled away and the extent of the damage was revealed.

"Should probably get her shirt off," Ruby whispered, eyeing a tiny pair of scissors that someone had left by the sink.

Both women blanched as Mary Margaret snipped through the cotton of Emma's t-shirt, and they realized it was stuck to a sickle-shaped gash that was weeping fresh blood.

"Open that cabinet. There's some first aid supplies in there." Mary Margaret motioned to Ruby, and proceeded to cut through the elastic band on Emma's underwear. Along Emma's hip was a tattoo of a firebird that was so caked in mud and other dark fluids that it looked decapitated until Mary Margaret washed it clean.

"Emma—can you stand up for me?" Mary Margaret coaxed.

A twinkle of recognition in her eyes, Emma reached out for Mary Margaret and lurched to get up, her body buckling as she tested her feet. With a misstep, Emma found herself clinging to her roommate, and then she was crying, blubbering uncontrollably. Mary Margaret scooped Emma up in a fluffy towel, her vision fogged not only by the steam from the bath, but also by a glaze of tears.

"Tell me what happened," Mary Margaret requested.

"I—don't know," Emma croaked.

"Please, Emma," Mary Margaret begged. "Don't keep this from me."

"Some—one," Emma jumbled her words as her teeth chattered. "Dr-ugg-ed me."

Guilt welled in her throat as she silently reprimanded herself for assuming that this was another instance in which Emma was purposefully obscuring her hurt; Mary Margaret might have inferred that her roommate had been doped.

"What do you remember?" Ruby piped in, if only to distract Emma from reading Mary Margaret's face.

"Walking," Emma answered. "The feel of—poison in my veins."

"Let's get you to your bed," Mary Margaret suggested, as if she believed she could leave her bad feelings behind in the bathroom, along with the muck and the grime.

Emma's pride prompted her to take three toddling steps at a time, until she made it up the stairs and into her bedroom. Ruby, Mary Margaret and David went with her, like a group of circus performers poised to catch the star acrobat in the event that she tripped. Although she had cried minutes before, there was no sign of Emma's tears now, and she was almost cantankerous as Mary Margaret bandaged her injuries and then assisted her with the clasps on her pajamas.

"Are you going to tuck me in now, too?" Emma snapped.

The question should have been a joke, but the spike in Emma's pitch warped the intended effect.

"I'm sorry," Emma quickly apologized, and then sank down on her mattress, ashamed of her own ingratitude. "Thanks—for taking care of me."

"You're welcome," Mary Margaret replied, and crumbled onto the bed next to her. "I'm staying in here tonight. We have to keep you awake for at least a few hours."

Emma wanted to protest, but instead she asked, "Why?"

"You definitely have a concussion," David contributed the explanation from where he stood in the doorway, and Emma noticed two things were absent: his shirt and his wedding ring.

"I'll stay awake until I'm in the clear. Then I need to sleep off the effect of the drugs and get back out there. Whoever did this could go after someone else," Emma spoke adamantly.

"Hey—maybe we could all help you with this investigation. We'll be your three new deputies," Mary Margaret proposed the idea, and Ruby nodded faintly to show she agreed with the plan.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the sentiment, it's just—"

"Mary Margaret is right," David butt into the conversation again, crossing to sit in an armchair. "You should accept our help."

"I—can't." Emma sighed. "By tomorrow everyone in Storybrooke will hear about this. Even if none of you say anything, people are bound to notice my appearance. Everyone will wonder how I let this happen. How will anyone feel safe in a town where the sheriff can't even protect herself?"

Mary Margaret felt gutted by her friend's refusal, both because her offer had been denied and more significantly because Emma felt personally responsible for the attack.

The fact of the matter was that Emma's argument was valid. It would soil her reputation if she accepted assistance, because it represented—on some level—an admission that she was an unfit candidate for her job.

"We'll help you in any way we can," Mary Margaret insisted, and the others silently concurred.

"Thanks," Emma told them quietly.

"I should probably call Granny and let her know where I am," Ruby said, tapping her nails against the plastic of her cell phone case, which she took from her pocket. "Do you guys mind if I crash on the couch tonight?"

"Not at all. Like you said earlier, no one's going anywhere. These are blizzard conditions," Mary Margaret gazed fretfully out the window and back at Ruby, who went and sat at the top of the stairway while she chatted with Granny.

Emma's breathing hitched suddenly as a jagging pain radiated from her belly to her hip, and she crawled over the bed because she could not articulate what she needed. The wastepaper basket was in the corner of the room, but her legs wobbled and caved inward, bringing her to the floor before she could get to it. She sat on her bottom, looking very young and vulnerable.

As Mary Margaret crouched beside her, Emma gagged on her own sickness, feeling a sting of humiliation as the spew hit the carpet and dribbled down the underside of her chin. David bent over them and put his hand on Emma's forehead, discerning both her palpable heat and a throb in her temples.

"I, uhm—" Emma warbled.

"She's feverish," David uttered.

"Emma?" Mary Margaret joggled her arm, alarmed by how Emma was staring without focus, her pupils dilated.

Emma swooned, listless and ashen as she drifted out of consciousness.

"We should have taken her to the hospital!" Mary Margaret shrieked, even though her words were self-contradicting; she lightly batted Emma's face in an attempt to rouse her.

"Doesn't matter what we should have done. We have to get her there now," David lifted Emma without effort and sprung into action.

Mary Margaret was briefly speechless, stunned by a fanciful recollection of David with a baby in his arms, but she did not pause as she raced through the home and rounded up their warmer clothing, yelling out to him, "Hurry!"

The roadways were blocked off, but David drove through the barricades, ramming them aside with a force that crushed the bumper on his truck. They skidded through ice and braved onward despite the limited visibility of the night.

Dr. Whale was on duty in the ER when they arrived, and he was perfectly cordial as he shepherded Mary Margaret, Ruby and David into the waiting area. A team of nurses pounced on Emma and whisked her away on a stretcher, disappearing into one of the private rooms.

"I'm going to need you to fill out some paperwork, assuming you know anything about Ms. Swan's medical history," Dr. Whale believed he had mastered the art of leering while also engaging in meaningful conversation, and he further multitasked by splitting his attention between Mary Margaret and Ruby. It might have been harder for him if the women had chosen to sit in chairs on opposite sides of the room, but thankfully they were huddled together.

Mary Margaret accepted the stack of papers from Dr. Whale, and penned in Emma's full name and date of birth.

"I'll be back. Take your time with that." Dr. Whale muttered, checked his buzzing pager and stalked out of the room.

"I don't even know if she has any allergies," Mary Margaret put the documents aside and grasped David's hand, measuring her shorter fingers against his longish ones, sighing.

David, Ruby and Margaret were quiet and restless, but no one calculated how long Dr. Whale was gone. The sole clock in the room was broken, the hands set to an everlasting midnight.

"Do you guys want anything?" Ruby paced over to the vending machine, poked in a number code and purchased a bag of skittles.

"Oh, no, thank you," Mary Margaret declined, and her eyes rotated towards David as he shook his head.

"Going to be here all night, I'm pretty sure. There's no coffee, so we can't rely on caffeine to keep us awake. Sugar is the next best thing." Ruby chewed the candy, and when she spoke again, her tongue was a rainbow of purple and green. "So, um. Are you two—seeing each other?"

They both responded simultaneously: David with a resounding "yes," and Mary Margaret with a rapid fire, "no."

"We're not officially a couple—yet," Mary Margaret amended.

"Whatever you say," Ruby smirked and plopped down in one of the hospital issue chairs, squirming around until she decided that no matter how she sat, she would be uncomfortable.

"Are you?" Mary Margaret tossed the question back at Ruby, casually flinging it like a Frisbee. "Seeing anyone."

"You know how it is," Ruby laughed, then bit her lower lip coquettishly as she eyed a male nurse, who rushed by the reception desk at a gallop. "I see a lot of people."

Dr. Whale returned, unable to veil his shit-eating grin as he overheard the last part of the conversation.

"I'm sure no one has any objections to that," he quipped, rifling through the papers on his clipboard and pushing a pair of reading glasses onto his nose. It was as though he felt that simple act alone would give him an air of professionalism when he so obviously toed that line at whatever chance he got.

"The good news is that Ms. Swan is asleep—not comatose," Dr. Whale informed them, as he caught a disapproving look from Mary Margaret. "The tox screen shows traces of mild sedatives, but I think she was also dosed with another, more powerful drug that has lingering and residual aftereffects. I ran the test a second time, but it was inconclusive." He leafed through his notes again, more for show than for the purpose of extracting any relevant facts about her state of health. "There were also two lacerations that we stitched up, and from my initial examination, I can tell you that she's broken two ribs, but we'll get an X-Ray to confirm."

Mary Margaret's chest expanded as she inhaled and withheld her breath, puffing it out in relief as she listened to the full report.

"Can we sit with her?" Without wasting the second it would take for him to officially grant permission, Mary Margaret catapulted herself in the direction of the room where Emma was sequestered.

"Hey," David pursued Mary Margaret through the hall and dropped his heavy hand on the back of her shoulder. "As far as I'm concerned, you and I are together. My word might not mean much after everything that's happened, but whatever you need, whatever I can give, it's yours."

"Right now I need to see Emma," The trill, light voice seemed to come from some disembodied source, rather than from Mary Margaret's own mouth. Her eyes were dewy as she shrugged David's hand from her shoulder, and pedaled backwards into the hospital room.

Behind a curtain that was folded like an accordion, Emma slumbered soundlessly, imparting the illusion that her dreams were restful, though she looked somehow forlorn. An IV pumped cleansing fluids into her vein, but she did not awaken while Mary Margaret sat in vigil at her bedside.

Later, David entered and took up residence in a chair by the window, mumbling that Ruby had fallen asleep in the waiting area. The couple stared at each other, and then at the woman who was unwittingly their hybrid—the facial structure and eyes unquestionably the mother's, the hair from the father's side of the family.

"Do you want kids?" The question was out before David considered whether it would be an appropriate topic for them to discuss at this juncture.

Mary Margaret prodded a spare pillow and handed it to him, and David knew the answer before she said it. "I—yes." She glanced lovingly at Emma, adjusting the disarray of the sheets because her nurturing instincts impelled her.

"I think you'll make a terrible mother. I mean, look at you. You'll certainly be overprotective and nagging," David chortled sarcastically, and jumped when Mary Margaret reacted by spinning around, stealing the pillow back and swatting him with it.

If it was not for the shimmer in Mary Margaret's eyes, David might have been convinced she was truly angry.

"Not what you expected me to say, huh?"

"I never know what to expect from you," Mary Margaret spoke candidly, peering at the nearby heart monitor as if it was a magical device that might not only gauge Emma's pulse rate, but could also offer her judicious advice on matters of the metaphorical heart.

"Give it fifteen to twenty years. When we end up an old married couple, you'll be able to predict my every move," David eased lower in his chair, exulting in how his words affected her and modified the mood in the room.

An hour later David was asleep, and Mary Margaret was pensive as she glanced between him and Emma, taken aback by the likeness in their preferred—if slightly awkward—sleeping postures. Mary Margaret at last surrendered to her own fatigue, with the disquieting impression that she was forgetting something.

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><p>A single strand of Snow White's hair was a fair trade for a potion concocted from the wells of a lake—a brew that was infused with Rumpelstiltskin's memory enchantment, but flavored only with the salt of her own tears.<p>

Before imbibing the draft, Snow tormented herself by revisiting those memories she wanted to forget, and alternately agonized over her inability to re-conjure some cherished minor details of her time with Prince Charming.

Even before she drank of the potion, her mind seemed committed to her plot to excise him from her life—to amputate him like some irreversibly damaged limb—to remove all those thoughts of him from where they festered in her brain like decaying tissue.

If Snow had not been steadfast in her decision to take this path, she would never have procured the little vial of poison—the elixir that would expunge the memories of the man she loved. This was necessary, she reminded herself.

Thus she sat with the drink in hand, and at the first burst of courage, swilled it around on her tongue and gulped it down.

The dwarves were industrious that day, and so it was that some time passed before Grumpy discovered her lounging in the bedroom, looking joyfully detached and ignorant.

"What did you do?" The tempestuous dwarf admonished her. "You look dopier than—Dopey!"

"What do you mean?" Snow cooed, grinning. "I'm fine."

"What was in this vial?" Grumpy griped, sticking it under her nose, lest she try to evade the question.

"Water," Snow White replied, smacking her lips together. "I was thirsty, but now that particular thirst has been quenched."

"Who gave this to you?" Grumpy persisted, his brow wrinkling with displeasure.

"A funny little man. He has—great power," Snow smiled, speaking almost in admiration of him, the mysterious sorcerer who cooked the potion.

"His name—what was his name?" Grumpy ranted, loudly enough for Sneezy to detect the commotion and come barging into the room.

"What is going on in here?" Sneezy blew his leaking nose into a cloth.

"Rumpelstiltskin," Snow lisped belatedly, temporarily silenced by Sneezy's honking and wheezing.

"Rumpelstiltskin!" Sneezy exclaimed, suffering a coughing fit.

"You made a deal with Rumpelstiltskin?" Grumpy fumed, running around the bedside to close the curtain over the window, because the sun was shining directly into his eyes, adding to his irritation. "Why did you do it, Snow? To forget the pain that comes with losing someone you love? You could have fought for him—you could have—well, I don't know what you could have done! But going to Rumpelstiltskin was not the best solution, I'll tell you that!"

"Love? Me?" Snow blinked, and smirked at the hilarity of Grumpy's assumption. "I've never—been in love."

"Yes, you have," Prince Charming regarded Snow White from where he stood framed in the doorway, a portrait of an unfamiliar royal.

"Who are you?" Snow was awed by the prince, and balked at him as he encroached on the bed, seating himself beside her.

"May I have the vial?" Charming extended his hand to Grumpy, who turned it over to him. The prince thumbed the glass container, rolled it around in his palm, and then squirreled it away in his boot.

"What are we going to do?" Grumpy groused, kicking a floorboard that was protruding, and making an awful face as he accidentally stubbed his toe.

"Undo what's been done," Charming told him, as it was their only discernable option.


	5. Daddy

**WARNINGS: **Violence, sex, abuse.

This chapter has been hit HARD with the bat of metaphor. It really couldn't be helped.

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><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: This has been re-edited & re-posted.

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><p>Emma's unconscious mind spun like a carousel. Topsy-turvy memories took turns on the wheeling ride, clinging and squealing and disembarking at their own leisure. They were all happy, heart-warming memories: she had a flash of Henry's wide smile as he nipped at an ice cream cone, and a glimpse of Mary Margaret in the kitchen, jubilant over baking a blueberry pie. Then there was the remembered spectacle of balloons at a birthday party she lucked into attending at the age of six— and the recollection of an elaborate show of fireworks she had seen in the deserts of Arizona when she was barely sixteen. The dreams never ceased in their coming-and-goings, clamoring like an eager crowd in the ticket line.<p>

It was well after three A.M. when a night terror emerged from some secret tent in the corner of her brain—a true carnival freak, with too many arms and too many faces. He was the inbred child of thematically related mental images, a composite of ugly thoughts.

In Emma's nightmare, Mr. Gold fondled her, easing her shirt up with blistered hands before burying his fingers into her scalp. He was taking ownership of her in the only way he knew how—by snagging a ring of her hair, and dandling her body as though she was a commodity to be bought and sold. _Oh, yes_, he surely intended to get his fair share of the profits.

A second set of greedy hands grappled with her in the darkness, but these were connected with much thicker forearms and the face of a mulish man whose wife sometimes promoted the idea of Emma calling him _daddy_. Whereas Mr. Gold's touch was appraising, this man was self-satisfied in his thinking that Emma was worthless. In the year she lived with him, he taught her of her value: first by insulting her in private, then by shaming her in front of his two children, and finally by narrowing his lessons to those that dealt strictly with the kinesthetic—the _tactile_. As worthless as she was, he needed her to remember that she belonged to somebody. He wanted himself permanently carved into her, so that whenever anybody caressed her—or loved her—they would feel those deep ridges of hurt.

Henry's father was the first man whose fingers fit so perfectly into those grooves of pain that he thought he was their creator. Above all else, Emma had been attracted to him for this quality, because his hands made her feel profoundly full and whole. It did not matter that he was disillusioned—that he was a former idealist chiseled unfittingly into the mold of a miserable bastard. It mattered only that he slept one night with his arm secured around her, and that he indulged her childish wishes by telling her every story he knew. He earned her trust without difficulty because she was wild and naïve back then, and left it out in a dish for the taking, like free lollipops at the bank.

In Emma's wakeful mind, she had dissected him and dug out the most vital components of his character. For safekeeping, she preserved the best parts of him with her memories of someone else, taking liberties in re-writing his life story. But it was _not_ the best parts of him that gave her Henry, her subconscious reminded her, and the memory that ultimately predominated in her dream was of that other man—the person who was dead to her.

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><p>The thunder cracked like a whip.<p>

The lightning was a pronged mark—cat o' nine tail lashes across the pregnant belly of the sky.

It was the time of night when most of the businesses on the boulevard were closed, except for the diner that was illuminated by a garish neon sign. After her shift, Emma boarded a bus and used the spare key to get into his apartment.

When she saw him, his brown hair was unkempt and there was a growth of stubble along his jaw from several days gone without shaving.

Her faded uniform smelled like fried food and rain, but he did not seem to interpret that as evidence she had been working all evening.

"I know that you went to see Walker."

His accusation sounded unusually hollow in the near-empty room, but he succeeded in never once slurring, in spite of the liquor in his bloodstream. A bottle of whiskey was located between the pillars of his strong legs, and he chugged on it while he waited to hear her account of the tale.

"_I was at work_. I haven't seen him in at least a week. Besides, he comes to see me—I don't go to see him. We're just friends." Emma swore it, as if her semantics could change how he felt and how he was looking at her.

"I get it. I am—almost old enough to be your father. You're—well, you're a little girl who lied about her age."

"Jake—"

"As long as we're on the subject of lies, that's not my real name."

They were strangers in that moment, unfamiliar to each other—him, with a sadistic humor in his eyes—and her, timid as she shrank away.

"What's your name?"

"It doesn't matter. " He spoke with stressed syllables, abandoning his drink on the poker table so he could meander over to her.

Aside from that table, there were two lumpy sofas in the living area, and he steered her to the larger of the set, slipping his hands up her skirt and yanking her panties down to half-mast. They were a red, silky pair that kept her knees locked together as he shoved her face-forward into the cushions, muffling her soft sounds.

He undid her zipper and ripped off her dress, then braced his palm on her bare back while he flicked open the hook on her bra. Rooted under him, Emma felt her chest heave riotously as he cupped the ripened fruit of her breast, and squeezed until it would bruise.

"I love—you."

The inflection in his voice told her that he was being ingenuous, but he was intoxicated and rough. Emma's blonde curlicues were frizzy from the weather, and unfurled from her ponytail at the slightest provocation, but that did not stop him from yanking it. When she obediently threw her head back, he used her hair as a rein, giving it a quick pull with one hand as he wound his other arm around her waist. He leveled their hips, fingers darting over the design of her tattoo, and then took down his jeans, grinding his erection into the slippery, tight slot of her sex.

"I know you weren't with him _tonight_, but you have gone over to his apartment after work. Two, maybe three times." He huffed in her ear and bit her shoulder, piercing her with his incisors and canines. "You—won't—be—doing that again—"

It was brutal and unforgiving how he treated her body—saddled her up as though she needed to be tamed and broken-in for use. Emma's muscles cramped because of the way they were positioned, and she gave a raw cry because it hurt.

He maneuvered her as he switched their placements, pushing Emma onto her backside—not because he wanted her to be comfortable, but because he wanted her legs wrapped around him.

Their mouths collided as he again stuffed her to fullness with his cock, and she felt a flutter in her womb, a rush of the pleasure he formerly denied her.

Then he came before she could, flooding her with his carnal seed and withdrawing to collect her clothes from where they were strewn on the floor.

"—Walker's dead," He finished his earlier thought, and hurled her laundry onto the couch as if it was filth. "Rookie idiot wanted to be a hero, and I gave him the go-ahead. He ran into a burning building to save a family from a hopeless situation. Damn kid owed me some money, too. Wonder if his parents will pay his gambling debts."

"You sent him into a fire—to die?" Emma was throttled by his admission. She felt sorrowful and sloppy and stained as she hugged her ruined dress and sniffled indignant, angry tears.

"Yeah. Now get up. Get the hell out."

When she made no immediate move, he punched through the white plaster surface of the wall behind her, and sliced his knuckles. To avoid him, she bobbed and weaved, and then simply wrestled herself away from him, skittering to the door.

"You're a slut. Not at all—what I imagined."

"You—you're a murderer," Emma's horror handicapped her, and so when he swung at her, she fell onto the floor.

Her skull peeped out from a gap on her forehead, and her blood drip-dropped in shades of rich carnelian, soaking her left eyebrow and pooling into her eye.

She was awakened by the ache that ensued from the re-conjured memory, that direct blow to the face.

* * *

><p>The hospital room was populated with people and flowers when Emma groggily sat up, and her dreams floated away as Mary Margaret bounced on the bed.<p>

"You're awake!" Mary Margaret looked like she might clap, smiling from ear-to-ear as she encircled Emma with her arms.

"Yeah," Emma grumbled, glancing around for the culprit who must have brought the coffee, because she sometimes had trouble believing that Mary Margaret's cheerful energy was not artificial.

Across from them, David Nolan was chatting with Regina, and the mayor mocked Emma as she stared over his shoulder, merciless even in her more charitable gestures. Henry was close by, his eyes downcast to the floor as he dragged his feet over to the bed, and slouched next to his birthmother.

Regina abruptly lifted a finger to silence Mr. Nolan and then pinned Emma with her eyes, her lips suppressing the temptation of a smirk.

"Henry needed to see you, and naturally I wouldn't keep him away, in light of the circumstances," The mayor explained her logic, and Emma sensed her words had double meaning because of their sour undertone.

"You have an hour," Regina told them, and then swiveled towards the door and out into the hallway—to give them the illusion of privacy.

Somewhat skittishly, Mary Margaret glanced between Henry and Emma, and then shifted out of the bed, beckoning to David.

"We're going to take a walk. We'll bring back some—uh—"

"Bagels," David supplied.

As Mary Margaret and David waltzed hand-in-hand down the corridor, they were oblivious to Regina's presence and how she seethed at the sight of them together.

The mayor placed a phone call to Kathryn Nolan and scheduled a lunch date, then lurked around in the hall to eavesdrop on Henry and Emma.

Alone at last, Henry chanced looking up at his mother, but his eyes were so weighed down with emotion that they soon plummeted back to the bed. His scarf was constricting his throat, but he fingered the blue and red stripes and chose not to take it off.

"I'm not going to be mad at you right now because I know you're hurt."  
>The boy whispered quietly because Emma was perceptive and her so-called super power would probably tell her that he was lying.<p>

"But the Evil Que—" Henry hesitated, editing himself. "My _adoptive_ mom—told me the truth about my father. He's still alive."

Emma moaned softly, shot through with a bullet of dread.

"What did she tell you?"

"Just that he lives in Arizona, and that he goes by a bunch of different names. She said that he's probably a con man."

"He's not," Emma insisted, for some unknown reason. She would never defend Henry's father, but she might have been trying to prove that her story was partly true, in the hope of regaining her son's good faith. "He's a fireman—a captain."

"What's his real name?" Henry wanted to know.

When Emma looked over at him, she allowed herself to think about the ways in which he closely resembled his father.

"I—don't know it."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I mean that he never told me his actual name. He went by Jacob Shriver when I—" Emma trailed off, reticent to disclose too much. "—When we met."

"Do you have anything of his?" It was the same question Henry had posed in the past, but now he was trying it out again, almost daring her to lie.

"I, uhm—" Emma wavered, and her nostrils expanded a minor increment as she breathed. Her hand subtly inched towards her hip and her fingertips brushed the hem of her standard-issue gown. "It's not exactly a keepsake," she frowned.

"What is it?"

"It's—a tattoo. Your father drew it."

Henry gazed at the spot that Emma was covering with her hand and quirked a brow.

"A golden bird," she told him without prompting. "It's—a phoenix."

"Tell me more about him," Henry requested, and because he nestled into her and tucked his head against her neck, she knew she would.

"He was jaded. From what little he mentioned, I got the sense that his own father wasn't a very nice man." There was an interlude during which she was silent, determining how much she could feasibly reveal.

"He grew up in Boston—raised by his mom and stepdad. When he was about eighteen, he moved out to Arizona."

As he listened to his father's biography, Henry absently surveyed his mother's injuries from the previous night.

His thoughts were rampant and could not be corralled: they ran like horses, and flew like ducks and tramped together like a flock sheep.

"He was a talented artist and craftsman. He also had a knack for winning bets and making deals."

Emma's words were euphemistic, even though she did not want to portray his father as the type of man he might want to someday meet.

She anticipated Henry's next question, but sat there dumbly instead of hedging him off, her face puckered and grim.

"Did you tell him about me?" Henry asked.

"Yes, I did."

Her voice resonated with resolve, and she was both firm and blunt:

"Your father didn't want me. _Didn't want us_. But it worked out better that way."

"Better?" Henry was roped in her arms, but he flinched and bucked away from her.

"I don't mean it like that—"

"This isn't _better,_ Emma."

"Henry—I am _sorry_ about your Dad. I'm sorry that I—"

"Don't—apologize." He was on the brink of crying, and he scrunched his eyes, trying to hinder the tears as they came.

Regina's heels clacked on the linoleum tile as she returned for her son, bent down in front of him, and wiped his snot. For the first time that she embraced him since he was very little, he reciprocated and held onto her. When his tension appeared to subside, she stood and gesticulated for him to wait outside.

Emma restrained herself from dissolving into emotional ruin as Regina turned to her, fiddling casually with the cinch on her belted sweater-dress.

"You—bitch." Emma rasped. "Why couldn't you just let him believe that his father was a hero?"

"Heroes don't really exist, Ms. Swan. They're—a fairytale creation," Regina was smug and diabolical. "Oh, but I guess I'm forgetting that you like fairytales, _don't you_?"

The mayor's agate eyes were somehow jarring and yet hauntingly beautiful, lit up in celebration of her victory.

Emma was at a stalemate, but from Regina's perspective, the sheriff's pause was indication that she was unready to accept defeat.

Regina therefore attacked another chink in Emma's armor, ridiculing her. "Now _I know_ you prefer fiction, but tell me the _true_ story."

Before Emma could protest, Regina persisted: "Dr. Whale says you were drugged and assaulted. Am I to believe that you were overpowered? Or did one of your boyfriends get a little too rough in bed?"

If Emma's wrist were not still embedded with IV tubes, she would have lunged at Regina. As it was, she jerked like a mad dog that had been tied up somewhere to protect the property. She sobered herself before demanding, "_What ever happened to patient confidentiality_? You can't pry into my medical records—"

"We've been over this, right? I'm the _mayor_ in this town. I needed to know whether or not to appoint someone to do your duties while you are recovering."

"I'm fine," Emma bristled, scanning the room in search of a clock. "I'll be out of here and back at work this afternoon."

"Oh? And are you going to investigate your own case? Could be deemed a conflict of interest." Regina lifted her foot and adjusted her shoe, briefly off-balance as she spoke.

"What do you expect me to do?"

"I _expected_ you would be more careful," Regina criticized her, and took a hopping step forward. "If you want my advice, you should start by snooping around at the inn. I warned you about that strange man. We rarely ever have visitors here, and he still hasn't moved on. I'm sure that he's up to no good."

"I talked to him last week. He's a writer. He's just—looking for inspiration."

Frustrated and tired from their bickering, Emma collapsed against her pillows.

"He can look elsewhere." Regina countered, obstinate in her view. "If _you_ don't investigate him more thoroughly, I'll appoint someone to help you do it."

With that final threat, the mayor vacated the room, leaving Emma to nurse her traumas, both of the body and the heart.

* * *

><p>The queen wore a feathery headdress and somber colors, and in the greenery of the forest, she looked like a raven in flight from her nest. Atop the stump of an old tree, Rumpelstiltskin was dancing a jig, kicking his toes in the air and snickering over his recent bargain. The man was dressed remarkably like a court jester, in a shirt with puffy sleeves and short trousers. Regina's crinoline skirt and tight-laced bodice were comparatively more luxurious, but also more restrictive. She had trouble keeping up with him, and became easily ensnared by brambles and twigs.<p>

"_What is it_? Why are we out here?"

Rumpelstiltskin took an agile leap and vaulted himself onto a low hanging branch. With madcap haste, he jumped onto Regina and flaunted the single strand of Snow White's hair.

"You dragged me out here for _this?" _

Furious, the queen barreled back from where they had come, but Rumpelstiltskin overtook her.

"What does this look like to you?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, taking a gander at it himself.

"A hair-" Regina snorted and scooted by him, but he circumvented her escape.

"_Snow White's _hair." Rumpelstiltskin hooted, and when he saw that she was suddenly rapt with interest, he grinned.

"What are you going to do with it?"

"That depends on you. I have two plans in mind."

The fiend took a whiff of the delicate, wispy lock, and divided it.

"You see, she traded me this for a memory enchantment. Right now she's as helpless as a sitting swan—just waiting to be pierced by the huntsman's arrow."

The dusk shadowed their faces and Rumpelstiltskin flattened his chest against Regina's bosom, further impinging upon her space. Regina glowered at him in disbelief, and with undisguised contempt.

"_Oh_, never fear! Her valiant Prince Charming _is _going to rescue her," Rumpelstilskin pumped his fist into the air, as if holding up a torch in support of the prince's cause.

"But, I _could_ slow him down, of course—if you're in a giving mood."

The imp's forefinger came in contact with the mole near the queen's lip, and then moved erratically to her ear, and down the front of her body.

"What do you want in exchange?"

"_Oh—say_, how about a lock of _your_ hair?"

"What will you do with it?"

Rumpelstiltskin seemed to ponder this, baring his teeth in clownish a smile.

"There's not much that _can_ be done with it, is there?"

Regina teetered with indecision, but she inclined her head to seal the deal.

Rumpelstiltskin screeched delightedly as he picked a longish strand of black hair, closing all five of his fingers around it.


	6. Liar

**WARNINGS**: Vague references to abuse.

* * *

><p>After Regina punctuated their little chat with her parting dig, Emma systematically censored her grief without ruminating over it, exceedingly harsh as she performed the self revisions.<p>

Using the edge of her gown, she swiped furiously at the tears in her eyes. Then she rummaged through the tray by her bedside, and flipped up the attachment in which a rectangular mirror was stored. When her vision was no longer impaired, she stared at herself and through herself.

_This is your beauty regimen, Emma._

Inverted in the reflection was the image of a lonely girl, metamorphosing into a woman who was unlovable. Her hollow cheeks, gaunt face and spectral complexion made her feel less than human. Reactively, she slammed the mirror shut, dislodged the lump from her throat, and turned on the TV as a ploy to divert herself and anyone else who might come into the room.

In a trance, Emma cranked up the volume and listened to the crackling noise of infomercials.

As soon as she arrived, Mary Margaret went straight to the TV console and punched the mute button. Her eardrums were ringing when she turned to Emma, juggling an oversized bag that contained their breakfast. What she encountered brought her to a shuddering stop.

Much as she frequently heeded Emma's unspoken requests not to meddle and push, Mary Margaret was distraught by the sight of her.

Emma's eyes were impossibly swollen and irritated—glaring clues that she had spent most of the morning in tears.

After an interminable silence, Emma snatched the white paper bag that the brunette was holding, and scavenged through it to find a pumpernickel bagel. Ravenously, she bit into the bread, persuading herself that she would not have to talk if her mouth was full.

Heartsick, Mary Margaret sank down on the bed, and absorbed Emma's pain, as if it was topical and transdermal.

"_Emma_—"

In the midmorning sunlight, Mary Margaret looked pasty and older than her twenty-nine years, both careworn and dispirited. Not once did Emma make eye contact or acknowledge her, and it made her feel impotent and irrelevant.

"Look at me, Emma. Tell me what you are thinking."

"I'm thinking that someone went overboard with the cream cheese. Thanks for the bagel and the carotid artery."

Rattled by the stupid joke, Mary Margaret blinked at her in shock.

In the quiet that ensued, Emma at last met her eyes.

Her bone-deep afflictions were on display, as clearly as if someone had laid her out on cold steel, sliced her down the middle, and peeled back her skin. Her organs were on the table.

Mary Margaret wanted to reach out and hold her bleeding heart.

"I lied to Henry about his father."

"I know you lied, but I'm sure he won't—"

"I lied to him _again."_

"_What_?"

"I want to go home. Right now."

"_Emma_," she breathed. "Please, Emma—"

"_I want to go home_."

Emma sobbed inconsolably, even as Mary Margaret snared her in a hug and rocked her like a baby. There was an innocence about her that Mary Margaret had never seen before, and she found herself both comforted and harrowed by its existence.

She was a child who had fallen haplessly on the playground and was begging her mommy to bring her home.

"I'll take you home. I'll take you home—right away."

Mary Margaret tracked down a nurse and signed the necessary release forms, expediting the process and keeping small talk to a minimum.

It was Dr. Whale who detained her, catching her in the hallway outside of Emma's room.

"Are we still on for Saturday?" he asked, smiling like a cat that not only ate the canary, but also showcased the carcass.

"No." Mary Margaret told him. "I mean—Emma isn't well. I doubt we will be attending the gala. You should also know that I'm seeing someone else."

She was more direct than ever, and she briefly wondered if she was being insensitive, but she was eager to get back to Emma.

Dr. Whale brightened at her straightforwardness, finding himself attracted to this new aspect of her personality. Normally she was reserved and apologetic in a way that was unpleasantly obsequious and over compliant.

"Who? Mr. Nolan?"

"Does that matter?"

"Not at all. In fact, it makes me all the more intrigued."

"Well, I need to go. Maybe that will add to the air of mystery."

Mary Margaret pushed by him and trotted back into Emma's hospital room. In the mode of caretaker, she folded the bed sheets and blankets while Emma went into the bathroom to change into the jeans and the cable-knit sweater that Mary Margaret had the foresight to bring along.

Without argument, Emma capitulated to the institutional requirement that she be escorted to the exit in a wheelchair. Outside, a cabdriver greeted them and opened the door so they could climb into the yellow taxi. On the ride home, Emma charted a constellation of stars in a patch of fog on her window, for the first time distant without being aloof.

Once inside the apartment, Mary Margaret fumbled with the dial on the thermostat and Emma hastened up the stairs to her bedroom.

Mary Margaret lagged behind to give Emma the chance to get her bearings, but after mopping the kitchen and scrubbing the dishes, she went up to check on her. As was her custom, she brought along a mug of hot chocolate, with extra whipped cream and a dash of cinnamon.

She found Emma lying on her side with a cushion wedged under her head.

Her cherubic features were not plump and rosy, as per usual; instead they were adulterated with misery, and appeared starved for all forms of sustenance, including love.

Mary Margaret held the mug while Emma slurped from it and when she was finished, slid into the bed next to her.

"Can I stay with you for a while?"

"I should probably get up and head down to the station. It will only be a matter of time before Regina calls to accuse me of neglecting the investigation."

"If she does that, I'll spread a nasty rumor about her at the next parent-teacher night." Mary Margaret waggled an eyebrow, trying to get Emma to laugh.

With the glimmer of a smile, Emma flopped over and fluffed her pillows.

"Speaking of school, shouldn't you be there?"

"I called the main office earlier this morning and told them I was needed at the hospital."

"Don't they frown upon that, unless you're visiting a family member?"

"Well." Mary Margaret deliberated, and then exhaled. "You are my family."

Unsure of how to respond, Emma compressed her lips together and locked her jaw. Her blue-green eyes were like shallow waters and Mary Margaret could see through to the sharp coral and piranhas that were her personal safeguards.

As much as they teased each other over Henry's theories, Emma did not dare to think of Mary Margaret—or anyone else—as a permanent fixture in her life. Even if she someday found her parents, she did not presume they would invite her to partake in a warm meal, let alone work to establish a relationship with her.

Her _only_ lifelong reassurance was that whoever knitted her baby blanket had loved her, once upon a time. It was realistic for her to think that maybe they no longer did.

Emma had to remind herself that it was not Mary Margaret's fault that she had this pessimistic outlook. Eventually, she softened and rested a hand on the brunette's shoulder.

Mary Margaret cried then, feeling irrationally overwrought.

"I wish I _was_ your mother, Emma," she spouted words and teardrops. "You need _someone_ to show you that love can be unconditional."

Mary Margaret continued, with a resurgence of passion uncommon to her, but not to the living legend within:

"_Every _time I look at you, I think about the people who must have shaped you as a person: your foster parents, your educators, and friends. _And_ _I get so—angry_. How could they have failed to teach you something so basic and so vital? How could they have failed to teach you about—love?"

"They taught me about love." Emma's cadence was off, and she whispered hoarsely. "_Everything_ about it."

Mary Margaret forced herself to sit up, and though she was not quite certain of what to make of Emma's insinuations, she felt herself breathing like an asthmatic. With the onset of vertigo, her perceptions became distorted and pinpricks of light were everywhere, shattering like glass. The ceiling was opening into the vast sky, vacuuming her into oblivion. Feeling spacey and frightened, she gazed over at Emma, whose attention was already fixated elsewhere.

Emma tilted her head as she heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Her gun was in her nightstand, and she retrieved it before slinking across the room.

David Nolan put his arms in the air, jingling the spare key that was hooped around his fingers.

"Mary Margaret said I should let myself in. Had to stop by the animal shelter. How are you feeling?"

"Paranoid." Emma lowered her gun, grateful that she had debated before chambering it. "I could have shot you."

Unfazed, David wandered over and kissed Mary Margaret, who was surfacing from her stupor. She pecked him on the lips, and then stared despondently at Emma.

Emma cringed in a mockery of disgust. "Hey, get a room," she told them. "Preferably one that isn't mine."

David chuckled at the juvenile comment and then his expression became more lax, as he asked: "So what did the mayor want earlier? I don't think I've ever seen her that excited."

Mary Margaret intuitively assumed that Emma would not be forthcoming when David broached the subject of Regina—but it was to her astonishment that the blonde hunkered down in the armchair by the bed and took up the thread of the conversation.

"Yeah, I haven't seen her this excited since she was getting laid on a regular basis."

Emma belatedly winced at her own remark. It had been a month since she made even a passing reference to Sheriff Graham, but it still felt as though there were razorblades in her throat whenever she thought of him. Before either David or Mary Margaret might see it, she hung her head and knocked a pearly tear from her cheek.

Mary Margaret knew that Emma's comedy act was intrinsically connected to how she coped with tragedy, but she was dismayed by Emma's unusual mourning process. This was yet another buried pain, in a sinkhole that was already too full.

Emma skipped a beat, and then blustered:

"Of course the mayor gets more pleasure out of screwing _me_, than anybody else."

Huffing, she ranted on:

"She told Henry the truth about his father. And now she's pressuring me to investigate the new guy in town. She's convinced he could be responsible for last night's incident," Uninhibited by rage, Emma stood up to pace the floor. "She's_ really_ just using this as an excuse to get me to do her bidding."

"She wants you to talk to that guy again?" Mary Margaret often wondered why Regina was so xenophobic, and she concluded that it was because the mayor was a person with secrets that were best kept in a small town. Not all strangers were threats, but the mayor treated them that way.

"Yeah." Emma rolled her eyes and ceaselessly cantered back and forth. She was restless, in spite of her injuries. "Fortunately he wants to buy me a drink sometime. I intend to take him up on his offer."

Perplexed, David peered over at Mary Margaret, but she bore into him with her eyes, conveying that he could pose questions later.

Emma went to her closet and rifled through it, until she came upon her leather jacket that was fire engine red. Her cozy brown coat with the faux fur was gone—collateral damage of the night before.

"Going to need a new winter coat," she murmured inaudibly.

While Emma was in dialogue with herself and Mary Margaret was observing her like a hen brooding over one of her ailing chicks, David was reflective.

As a man who was often lost and ambivalent, he latched onto the unbidden emotion he was experiencing because it was intense and sincere: he fervently desired to keep them both safe. Ever the pragmatist, he was contemplating ways of accomplishing that.

"Why don't you let me talk to this guy? You know, the one that Regina wants you to investigate. I think it would be—safer." David proposed the idea and then sought to justify it, but even he was unconvinced.

Emma's initial impulse was to ask him if he had broken his head again recently, but she checked her aimless hostility and opted to be polite. "That's—not necessary, but thank you."

Unfortunately, Mary Margaret thought it was a brilliant idea, and her eyes sparked as though she had come up with the masterful plot herself. "Oh, oh! I know." She spoke like one of her obnoxious fifth graders, the nerdy kid in class. "Why don't we _all_ go out for drinks? All four of us."

Emma was _sure_ she heard herself speaking protests, but neither David nor Mary Margaret was listening, because they were already discussing the logistics of their spectacular plan.

* * *

><p>From taking one glance at her, he could tell that Emma Swan was a mess of a person, even if she was a classic beauty.<p>

She arrived on his doorstep in hooker heels and a hopeful, skintight dress. Her mouth was coated in a shade of scarlet lipstick, and her pout was as sultry and sinful as the devil.

For years to come, he would associate that color with her. She was his anger and lust personified.

_She was red_.

Later he would find out that she _even_ tasted red, like hot chili peppers and cinnamon and cayenne spices.

And yet as their eyes met for the first time, he found himself re-evaluating her: she was much younger than he guessed, and there was an unexpected purity about her that clashed with her ensemble. She was a baby doll dressed up in whore's clothing, and he immediately pegged her as a rich man's toy.

After all, he was more than qualified to spot the type.

Even though he lived a modest lifestyle, he was an affluent man who pissed away his fair share of money on women and booze. The way she shimmered in the afternoon sunlight made him certain that she was someone's trophy.

With an arm draped casually on the doorframe, he looked like the handsome veteran of his own internal war, gruff and yet charismatic. He had a natural allure that made Emma feel like she was being childish and careless, gaping at him the way she did.

"Hi," she squeaked.

Much to her chagrin, she sounded supplicating and painfully shy, and her eyes jumped away as though she was spooked. She fidgeted with the strap on her bag, and then launched into the speech she had been practicing in her head for many weeks. "I was wondering if—"

"I'm not buying any girl scout cookies," he spoke over her only because he was aware she would let him. "_Or any girl scouts_, unless you're of age."

Her instinct was to shut her mouth and leave, but she had relocated to Arizona for the sole purpose of coming here to see him. After the sacrifices she had made to get to this point, she was unwilling to budge.

The last of her funds had been used to buy the plane ticket, and even though she had a job waitressing at a 24-hour diner, they were not paying her enough to afford both an apartment and food. There were other, similar jobs she might get if she applied for them, but the fringe benefit was that she had the graveyard shift, which meant she did not have to sleep out in the cold.

During her time off, she went to the public library and hung around in the stacks, fooling the old ladies who sat at the front desk. They fancied she was a bookish college student, and she let them go on believing that because it meant they would never interrupt her while she was dozing in an aisle, using a novel for a beauty-mask.

It was a blessing she had befriended a sociable girl at work, whose roommates did not mind when Emma stopped by to use the shower. Otherwise, she might have been slovenly for this important meeting, and she wanted to look her best. She had to borrow the dress and the heels from her friend, but when she put them on, she realized that they suited her—not the sixteen-year-old sucker that she was, but the fearless woman she needed to become.

"What makes you think I'm for sale?"

Her retort incited him to smirk, and he felt she might yet earn his respect.

"I'm looking for William Shriver," she forged ahead, emboldened by the fact that he was amused by her. It meant that he would not slam the door in her face. "Is he here?"

"Wrong address, wrong state."

Emma frowned at him and then pawed around in her bag for the documentation she had printed out at the library. "But it says right here—"

"Sweetheart, you're mistaken."

She smelled of honeysuckle, milk and disappointment.

"Look," he told her. "There's no way you're going to track him down. The kid is one hell of a writer, but I haven't had a single letter or an email from him in god knows how long, and I'm his own brother. Last I knew, he was living in Kansas, but he never sits still—"

He kneaded his fingers over the back of his neck, seemingly conflicted about getting involved.

"Since you're already here, why don't you come inside and tell me what you need? Maybe I can help."

Emma consented with a nod of her head.

When she was seated beside him at the table in his kitchen, she pulled a small bundle from her bag.

It was a baby blanket crocheted with white, wooly yarn.

Stricken, he shoved himself against the back of his chair.

"Your name is Emma."

The name rolled easily off of his tongue, like a prayer committed to memory.

"Do you remember me?"

"Yes," he said.

Stoic and unreadable, he swallowed and rubbed his face. His heart was palpitating as he brushed his thumb over the purple letter _E._

"You're, _um_—you're that baby my brother found on the side of the freeway."

"All grown up now, but yes. I was hoping to talk to him. I wanted to—"

He cut her off.

"You're looking for your parents, aren't you?"

In lieu of confirming it, she inclined her head, took her baby blanket into her lap, and picked at the pretty ribbon.

"Listen, kid, that was so many years ago. Your parents are probably living different lives right now."

When she still seemed hopeful, he tried another approach:

"You're not thinking about this logically. My brother might have found you, but I'm not sure what makes you think he'll know anything about who your parents are—"

"It's—the only lead I have," she explained, looking like a tearful lamb.

"Take my advice, honey. Don't go looking for your parents."

He went to pour himself a drink and as he gulped it down, his throat stung from the liquid fire of the alcohol. He did not tell Emma that he knew who her parents were, or how it had come to pass that they had unwittingly left a screaming infant in such a precarious place.

He never told her that he knew their exact whereabouts, either.

He was a self-righteous liar.

* * *

><p>The lad was tall and gangly, with eyes that looked like inset gems and a maturity about him that made him seem wise. His raiment was of red and gold, and when he was brazen enough to stand in front of Regina's chariot, he looked like he was casting a spell to call the sun from the sky.<p>

The galloping horses yielded to him and bowed down their heads, and the queen became belligerent when the animals refused to obey her commands. Her glacial features contorted into a grimace as she joined him on the road.

"_Stupid boy_," she griped. "Just what do you think you are doing?"

"Since you're so clever, I would have thought that was obvious," he remarked. "I was hailing you down, of course."

Regina's eyes smoldered, and she swept up the skirt of her gown that was dragging in the dust.

"What is your name, stupid boy?"

"Baelfire," he told her, and it seemed he was enjoying a private joke.

The queen's anger was somehow mitigated by his presence, and she felt a pang of longing that she did not understand. His eyes reminded her of the stormy ocean, and of her childhood home in a distant land.

"You risked getting trampled on by my horses, Baelfire. _Why_?"

Baelfire reached up to pat one of her snorting stallions, as though it was no more of a threat than a puppy.

"I want to entreat you to keep your distance from Rumpelstiltskin. He is the one responsible for your deep-seated misery. You are mistaken in believing it stems from other sources."

Regina was bewildered by his cryptic words, and that prompted her to resort to being quarrelsome.

"And just who are _you _to warn _me_ of anything?" Her voice was booming, and a flock of squawking birds took flight from the nearby treetops.

The boy hesitated, staring at the woman who was heartless and deadly. It was as though he was on the verge of disclosing an awful secret, but then he recanted.

"I am—no one."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: I just wanted to thank you all so much for your reviews and comments! They brighten my day and inspire me to write. It especially pleases me to know that you're a fan of my Emma, Regina & Rumpelstiltskin.

As for Chapter 6: I know Henry's father seems like quite the creep now, but I promise that when his backstory is explained, it will be crystal clear how he has become this way. I think that after his history is **fully **understood, you will—in fact—have an "oh!" moment. He's not a character that anyone is supposed to like, but once he's de-mystified, his particular psychosis will at least make more sense. If you have any guesses about his identity, feel free to PM me! Curious to know what people think.

I also wanted to say that I sincerely hope the last chapter didn't dissuade anyone from reading, as I am **keenly** aware that the themes are potentially triggering. It hurt to write that segment, but I think for Emma to lie about Henry's father—when she herself is **so** driven to find her own parents—signifies _something._

Edit: Originally I wanted to try and adhere to canon for as long as possible, but I don't think that will be the case from here on out. I will eventually be incorporating some ideas from the episode 1x13, but it is my intention to give a different spin on events. Not really a fan of where they're going with the next episode.

Thanks for reading!

**Special thanks:** To lonewolf3676, for putting new plot ideas into my head.

**Added notes: **So, upon yet ANOTHER read of this chapter, I realized there were some minor errors in spelling and wording. I'm also kind of disappointed with the watered-down description in this chapter, so I'll be making an effort to return to my more florid style for all future installments.


	7. Birds

After she examined the plum-colored bruising along the interior of her thighs, and the stitches that looked like cat whiskers kissing at her belly and hip, Emma warded off troublesome thoughts by concentrating on small comforts. She balanced herself on the edge of the porcelain bathtub and wiggled her toes in bubbly, lukewarm water. As she lathered herself in smooth soap and sponged away lingering residues of filth, she relished the feel of clean, pink skin.

The bathroom was soon engulfed in a blanket of steam, which helped to unclog the sediment from Emma's pores, but also loosened the debris from the shipwreck that was her emotional state. When she began sniffling back tears, her eyes roamed from the sheer beige curtains to the fragrant sachet of crushed rosemary that was nested in a little basket on the vanity. She sought reassurance from the inanimate objects, or perhaps from what they represented.

Mary Margaret's décor was feminine and effusively romantic, and Emma found herself associating those particular tastes with confusing and altogether absurd concepts. For one: the safety of finally having a home and a mother.

She shook off the ridiculous idea while she was shaking off droplets of water from the bath and toweling herself dry in front of the mirror.

As Emma swallowed two bitter pills to combat the pain that lanced through her, she distracted herself by channeling thoughts of the grilled cheese sandwich and the fresh-cut potato French fries that David had prepared for their lunch. His presence in her life was the source of some unclassifiable emotion, but Emma knew unquestioningly that she was at ease with him in the same way she was at ease with Mary Margaret. She was also mildly impressed by his ability to cook without the use of a microwave, or a toaster oven.

While she went through the methodical routine of getting ready, Emma remembered the game from her childhood that entailed inventing stories about her absent mother and father. She felt a sudden impulse to cast her friends in those roles and see how her mind would let the scenario play out.

Instead, she absorbed herself in the process of pulling on sheer black stockings and a matching dress with a décolleté neckline. As she hummed a soft tune, she applied eye shadow and mascara, and lipstick so red that it made her mouth look bloodstained.

Mary Margaret knocked on the bathroom door and shifted from foot-to-foot as she waited. Unlike Emma, she had started getting ready an hour too early, and her wardrobe was contrastingly conservative and darling: her dress was a sweetheart cut with rough scalloping along the cleavage, and she wore a winter-white sweater with buttons that were shaped like candy pieces. Her worry for Emma had not subsided, but she was relieved because the blonde had listened to her nagging words of advice. She and David had been granted permission to tag along during Emma's date with the writer, but they agreed to observe from afar and only get involved if they were needed.

Earlier that afternoon, Emma had gone down to the station to begin work on the investigation: she searched the databases for previous offenders in the area, and combed through all documentation related to assault cases. After compiling a list of potential suspects, she phoned the inn and requested to speak with the writer. When she heard his name for the first time, Emma understood why he had been so reluctant to tell her what it was: _August W. Booth_ must have been a family name, she decided—a title bestowed upon him by a mother who felt morally obligated to perpetuate the memory of an old, wealthy uncle.

Emma was putting the finishing touches on her make-up and reviewing the events of the day in her head when the persistent knocking came at the door.

"You can come in," she told Mary Margaret.

On cue, Mary Margaret poked her head into the room, and then squeezed through the scant opening she created. Once inside, she gathered up damp towels and kicked the bathmat until it lay perfectly flat on the floor. As soon as she took care of those important matters, she paused to inspect Emma's provocative apparel.

"_That's_ what you're wearing?"

Without answering, Emma flipped the light switch and strolled into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. Mary Margaret hurried along after her, looking critical.

David was sitting on a stool at the breakfast counter, where he had been perched for the last several hours. Mary Margaret had banished him to that location when she noticed it was time to get ready, because he had obviously failed at a lesson he should have learned in the first grade: he _did not_ know how to keep his hands to himself.

As Mary Margaret and Emma approached, David glanced up from the newspaper that he was reading and gawked at the blonde. He wanted to argue that her dress was both too short and too low-cut, but he realized how wildly inappropriate that would be coming from a man who was not her father.

"You can't wear _that,"_ Mary Margaret griped.

"Why not?"

Emma drained her coffee mug and rinsed it out, and because her back was turned, David gestured to Mary Margaret to indicate that he seconded her opinion.

As she spun around to face them, Emma caught the tail end of their mimed conversation.

"I have limited choices," Emma told them, sticking her chin out about as far as it would go. "It's either I wear this, or jeans."

"Jeans!"

The chorus of their voices caused Emma to flinch, and she glared at them with unmasked petulance, looking very much like a cranky teenager.

"You can borrow something of mine," Mary Margaret insisted, and she grabbed Emma's elbow, giving her a tug towards her bedroom.

Emma knew that it was better to humor her, so she stretched out on Mary Margaret's bed while the brunette dug around in her armoire. She studied the cracks on the ceiling and the geometrical clock on the powder-blue nightstand, and frowned into a pillow when she was presented with her options.

Mary Margaret had chosen three outfits that would have been precious if Emma was five years old: the first was a wispy lilac dress with silver beading, and the second was a schoolgirl jumper that she could envision on a cartoon character. The last choice was Mary Margaret's personal favorite, and therefore the least appealing to Emma: it was a pale pink sweater with a matching headband and socks.

"Really? This isn't _To Catch a Predator._" Emma sighed, poking at the garments.

"Just try these on." Mary Margaret demanded.

To give Emma privacy, Mary Margaret stepped back in the direction of the kitchen, where David greeted her by unfastening the top two buttons on her sweater. Mary Margaret swatted his hands away, but she tilted her mouth up to kiss him, and chewed on his bottom lip.

Emma obligingly changed into Mary Margaret's preferred outfit, but refused to wear the accessories that went with it. When she reappeared, David and Mary Margaret smiled at her to show their approval.

Mary Margaret skipped off to grab her purse and her jacket, but also came back with a tissue, which she handed to Emma. Without having to ask what the tissue was for, Emma begrudgingly wiped at her flashy lipstick, until it was more of a cherry-red gloss.

"We should get going," Mary Margaret said, glancing at the time, and then over at David. "Mr. Booth might find it suspicious if he sees us here, and then spots us at the bar."

"You think?" Emma remarked.

"We'll see you there," David told Emma. He shuffled over to a chair, retrieving his long gentleman's coat from where he had left it. Then he clasped hands with Mary Margaret and led her from the apartment.

August W. Booth was no more than five minutes late. When Emma pulled back the door, she noted that he was wearing dark blue jeans and his black leather jacket, and that he was holding two motorcycle helmets. He had a cowboy strut, and a distinctive, devil-may-care grin that was the trademark of a bad boy.

"Flowers aren't really my style, so I brought you this instead," he informed her, thrusting a helmet into her hands.

Booth took a second to assess her, smirking as he eyeballed the pink sweater. "You look—s—sweet." The way his tongue faltered on the _S_ suggested that he might have been planning to tell her that she was sexy, but that was the wrong adjective to describe her tonight.

"Thanks." Emma responded, blushing not because of the compliment, but because she knew she looked _too_ sweet—like a fluffy stuffed animal made by someone's doting, over-involved mommy. She put on the thick leather jacket that she had purchased on her way home as a replacement for her missing winter coat, and felt grateful that it would temporarily conceal the outfit that was underneath.

"We could take my car," Emma offered, as they walked out onto the street and towards his motorcycle. "The roads are still slippery."

"I have a lot of practice driving in these weather conditions. Don't you trust me to keep you safe?" He was already sitting on his bike, occupied with the task of strapping on his helmet. When she continued to hesitate, he turned the key in the ignition and kicked the starter to spur a reaction out of her; he not only wanted her to make a decision, but also hoped to hear her gasp at the sound of the roaring engine.

"Of course I don't trust you." Emma was blunt with him, but she mounted the vehicle anyway and buckled the helmet onto her head, at last securing her arms around his waist. "You're a writer," she explained. "It's your job to make up lies—_especially_ lies that sound good."

"_Well_, you're a sheriff," he countered. "It's your job to interrogate, but I'm not a criminal. So, stop assuming that I'm lying to you." Booth looked over his shoulder at her, with a hint of amusement in his crystalline blue eyes.

With that, he sped off down the fairway, zipped through the neighboring streets, and parked in front of a pub that at first seemed deserted. Emma had never been inside, so she assumed that she was not well acquainted with anyone who frequented the place, but when they were seated across from each other at a sturdy, mahogany table, she saw that there were a handful of familiar customers at the bar. Mary Margaret and David stared conspicuously at Emma from where they were seated by the window, but thankfully Booth was positioned so that he looked in the opposite direction.

A balding man stood up and came over to August, dropping a book onto their table. "Hi there, Mr. Booth," he smiled solemnly. "Here's that book I mentioned last night."

Emma recognized the man as Mr. Krzyszkowski, the town record-keeper.

Mr. Krzyszkowski halted when he saw Emma, huffing as he always did when he acknowledged her. "Sheriff Swan. How are you feeling? I heard about the incident."

Emma perked up in her chair, bracing her arm on the sill that ran up and down the length of the wall. "I'm fine," she told him, trying to prove her words by arranging a pretty smile on her face.

"From what I was told," Mr. Krzyszkowski prattled on, "you had quite a wild night." The older man regarded Emma with a look she could not interpret; he was either accusing her, or sympathizing with her.

Booth was quietly soaking in the exchange between Emma and the record-keeper, but when he noticed that she was uncomfortable, he picked up the book and paged through it. "Thanks for this, Mr. Krzyszkowski," he said, and then waved him off with a flick of his wrist, like a magician performing a vanishing trick.

"Should I ask?" Booth set his gaze back on Emma, and she shrank lower in her seat.

"I was attacked last night," she admitted, and then narrowed her eyes as she gauged his initial response to that announcement. It was obvious from what Mr. Krzyszkowski had said that August was at the pub some time during the previous night, but until she collected more evidence, she would not conclude that he had an alibi.

Booth was neutral, but as he registered the news, Emma could tell that he was staggered by it. He stopped toying with the packet of cigarettes that he had taken from inside of his coat. "Did you catch the person who was responsible?" he asked.

"No, not yet." Emma exhaled.

In her adult years, she had become an impeccable judge of character. Her so-called super power allowed her to see that Booth was not the one who had mishandled and mistreated her. Emma was able to relax, even though she sensed he was insidious in other ways: there was something cold and cunning about him.

"I would tell you that I'll keep you safe, but I'm pretty sure you'd call me a liar again." Booth intoned, as he ensorcelled Emma with his snake-charmer smile.

He stroked at his downy facial hair, looking studious and perspicacious, as he added: "Besides, I bet you're the type of girl who's always been able to protect herself."

His comment felt like a jab, but Emma nodded and squared her jaw, determining that _she_ would lie. "You're right. I am that type of girl," she told him.

It was the expression on Emma's face that incited Mary Margaret to pounce at that particular moment, and she moved in on them before David could attempt to restrain her.

"Oh, hi. We didn't expect to bump into you!" Mary Margaret spoke in the singsong voice she used with her ten-year-old students, and planted herself at their table before Emma could speak a word of protest.

As soon as the brunette was seated, Emma gave her a discreet kick and an ominous look. Mary Margaret blinked stupidly at her, like a doe that was too busy frolicking across the roadway to care that a truck was barreling straight towards her.

Booth grinned at Mary Margaret, measuring her potential entertainment value. He immediately liked her energy, but when he lifted a cigarette to his lips, he changed his mind about her. Mary Margaret hardly hesitated before snatching the toxic death-stick away from him.

"I'm Mary Margaret," she introduced herself, vigorously shaking Mr. Booth's hand. "And this is David," she said, motioning to him and smiling brightly, like a spokesperson extolling the virtues of teeth-whitening toothpaste.

David cringed and dragged over a chair for himself, unsure if he should support Mary Margaret, or if he should do his best to look apologetic. The outcome was that he vacillated noncommittally between the two, instantly in accordance with whoever happened to be looking at him.

"She works with children." Emma disclosed that piece of information because August might excuse Mary Margaret's unusual behavior if he viewed it as a professional asset.

Booth's baritone was cordial and melodic. "And she's your roommate, isn't she? I know I've seen you together at the diner." With finesse, he veiled his true opinion of Mary Margaret behind a disarming grin. "Maybe she'll give me some insights about you, since you aren't very forthcoming," he laughed.

Mary Margaret straightened up, and it was apparent to everyone that she was flattered by Booth's faith in her.

"Let me get us a round of drinks," Booth urged. He beckoned to a waitress, who promptly recorded their orders on a little notepad, and hustled over to talk to the bartender.

Emma was on her fourth drink by the time Booth got around to bringing up the subject of her childhood. Mary Margaret had been satisfied with a single glass of red wine, though David had paid for their second round.

"I was in the foster system until I was sixteen," Emma told him, and then stole Mary Margaret's untouched glass of Merlot. Her lipstick left an imprint on the glass, even though most of it had been rubbed off during the course of the night, or diluted by alcohol.

Progressing from slightly buzzed to tipsy, Emma felt her cheeks burn hotly and her stomach churn. When she hit full-on inebriation, she gulped the last drop of wine, and permitted her heavy eyelids to flutter. "What was your family like?" she drawled.

"My mother took care of us kids, and my father was a lawyer. My older brother was the one who inspired me to become a writer. He told elaborate stories about enchantresses and queens, and thieves. Surprised he's never published them." Booth mused, and made a mental note to phone his brother.

They stared at each other for a long while, and Emma knocked knees with him under the table. His eyes were hypnotic seas, and she was lured into them to drown. Were it not for Mary Margaret and David, Booth knew she would have gone back to the inn with him.

Mary Margaret and David were chatting with each other, but in the silence, they both speculated that something was amiss. David cleared his throat, and Mary Margaret took Emma aside, ushering her off to the ladies' room. As the women stood in front of a cluster of sinks, Mary Margaret dampened a paper towel, and held it against Emma's forehead.

"You're drunk." Mary Margaret scolded her.

Emma's body felt unwieldy, and she touched Mary Margaret's arm as though playing a piano, placing her fingers on all the wrong keys. She wanted to wrap her arms around the other woman, but she ended up drooping against a bathroom stall. Mary Margaret scraped her off of the floor and together they promenaded outside to her station wagon. David and Booth took up the rear, awkwardly taking turns at opening doors for each other.

"We'll worry about getting Emma home." David told Mr. Booth, and then loaded the blonde into the car. "She'll—call you," he promised, as an afterthought.

When Booth bid them goodnight and drove off on his motorcycle, David and Mary Margaret hopped into the vehicle and navigated homeward.

"I should have monitored her." Mary Margaret reprimanded herself, as they carried Emma's dead weight into the apartment.

They brought her up the stairs to her room, and Mary Margaret got Emma dressed and ready for bed in a pair of baggy sweatpants and a huge t-shirt. Together, the women sat cross-legged in the center of the mattress, and Mary Margaret brushed Emma's golden hair.

While David was downstairs fetching water and aspirin, Mary Margaret circled around Emma and stared at her. Emma sucked on her lower lip because she was woozy and frazzled. She foiled Mary Margaret's attempts to catch her eye, but she whispered a request: "Could you stay—here—with me?"

Mary Margaret unrolled Emma's bedspread and tucked her in, then slipped in next to her, and coddled her like an infant. David arrived with the aspirin, and after Emma drank it down, he sat in the armchair near the bed.

"I had the strangest dream last night," David yawned, stretching his legs across the carpet and unwinding his tired muscles.

"What was it about?" Mary Margaret inquired, glancing over at David as she stroked Emma's sun-kissed curls. After he described the castle and the dwarves and forest to her, she smirked and enlightened him. "That's part of the story I read to you back when _you_ were in the hospital!"

Mary Margaret was going to ask Emma to verify it, but Emma was not listening to their conversation, because she was already in the undertow of her own dream.

Drifting into alcohol-induced delirium, Emma's final thought was that if she had a father, he would have given her a talk about the birds and the bees and called her pumpkin when she was young—but what she had instead were men, men, men, and they took a more hands-on approach. They gave her vulgar pet names and crawled into her skin; they burrowed themselves deep inside of her and colonized her soul.

In her nightmare, Emma passed through a throng of men and ran an endless gauntlet towards the one person she would never regret loving. Henry reached out to her and shouted, but then tumbled forward and was gone from view. She cried over the loss in her sleep, sobbing as the men encroached upon her.

Before she awoke with a start, a firebird descended on the horizon and alighted on her shoulder. The phoenix drove the men back, but also ignited her like a pyre. The flames were an erotic touch, and they were exciting up until the moment that they scorched and consumed her—

It was two A.M. when she sat up, drenched in sweat and nestled in Mary Margaret's arms. David was asleep, but Mary Margaret felt the movement and peeped over at Emma in the glow from the alarm clock.

"What is it? Did you have a nightmare?" she asked, massaging Emma's back.

"I'm going to lose Henry," she wept.

"No—_no_, Emma. He'll forgive you. He'll—understand." Mary Margaret tightened her hold on the trembling woman, and tried desperately to soothe her.

"I told him that his father didn't want us." Emma's voice quavered, and she shut her eyes, snuggling back against Mary Margaret. "Jake would have wanted Henry, but I never told him that he was going to have a son. I—couldn't."

"Why not?" Mary Margaret's tone was hushed, because she was wary that Emma could terminate their discussion on a whim.

"_I—wanted—my baby_," she sniffed. Emma hid her face in Mary Margaret's neck, and her secrets were muffled between their bodies. "And Jake was—not the type of man—loved him—scared me—I wish—could have kept—"

Mary Margaret could not understand her because Emma was incoherent and nonsensical; she rocked the woman back to sleep and stared over at David, who was alert and sitting like a sentry in the darkness. He had stayed overnight to keep them safe, she knew.

But neither David nor Mary Margaret was aware that the only one who could protect any of them was slumbering restlessly in their midst-

* * *

><p>"Once upon a time, there was a golden bird," Jacob murmured, aiming his flashlight towards the ceiling of the tree house, and then into the eyes of his kid brother. It was summertime, and in spite of being seven years older, Jacob was required to keep William entertained. They were both sprawled out on sleeping bags, and wore matching navy blue pajamas that were covered in white ships.<p>

William was watching Jacob closely because he always felt that something magical was bound to happen when they were together. He was fascinated with his brother, because the older boy was raised by his father and had only come to live with them earlier that year. Jacob was roguish and fun, and always included William in his games: they pranked their parents, and snuck desserts before dinnertime, and stayed up late into the night when they should have been in bed. To William, summer meant a reprieve from school, and two whole months that he could spend listening to Jacob's stories.

While Jacob continued with his tale, William spread a plaid blanket on the wooden floor of the tree house, and took a bag of chips from his stash so they could play checkers and eat the pawns. The younger boy might have paid more attention to strategy, if he was not so enthralled by the story.

"It was because of the golden bird that everyone's wishes came true," Jacob summarized the moral for William, because the little boy looked dumbfounded. "That's why it's my favorite," he explained.

"Tell me another one," William begged, chomping on a salty chip.

The boys paused their game as they heard the sound of crashing dishes from inside the house, and Jacob frowned when he recognized his mother's screaming voice. William became upset, and Jacob spoke in a loud drone until he calmed down.

"There once was an enchantress who had a special wishing-cap. _Whosoever_ put it on could wish himself away wherever he liked, and in an instant he would be there," Jacob told the fairytale, overpowering the sound of his fighting mother and step-father. When he spotted tears in the little boy's eyes, he fished around in his knapsack and yanked out a hand-knit hat. "Don't put it on," Jacob warned.

William prodded apprehensively at the cap, as though it was a sleeping animal that might growl and gnaw his fingers off. "Is this it? Is this the wishing-cap?" he gasped.

"Yes," Jacob told him. "You know how I used to live with my father? _This_ is how I came to live with you. I put on the wishing-cap, and I wished to be back with my—mother."

"I thought you took a bus," William began to argue, but he found that what he wanted more than anything was to _believe_.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: So, as you may or may not know, I did actual research for this story, and I have decided it will be quite long because I have come up with a premise that could provide me with enough material to last almost indefinitely. I plan to keep writing until I lose steam and/or people lose interest— :)

As the pieces are starting to come together, I'd like to point out that the fairytales I've referenced in this chapter (and in previous chapters—2 &3) are **real**. If you'd like to read them for yourselves, they are entitled: _The Golden Bird _and _The Crystal Ball, _respectively.

Also, some specific comments for everyone who reviewed my work:

**gostlcards**: Sorry you didn't like the part about the little boy! It suited my plot purposes, unfortunately. Glad you like the interactions between Mary Margaret, Emma and David. You might be sad to know that I have a dramatic sequence planned for the next chapter that involves Mary Margaret/David, but I think you'll be pleased to see how it eventually plays out. Thank you so much for your positive reviews!

**Vanamo**: So glad you're enjoying the story, and I do hope you're continuing to read! You will get the opportunity to love/hate Rumplestiltskin again in the upcoming chapters, especially when Emma & Mary Margaret decide to attend the gala. You'll also get to see more of my vision for his backstory. I know I've kind of cheapened the quality of my flashback scenes (especially in the last chapter), but I'm changing that as of now.

**KJohnson17**: It's great that you're excited to see more of my ideas come to life, because I spent a lot of time making an extensive master outline the other night! :) Hopefully you won't get tired of me, as I attempt to tell the rest of this story-

**LW**: I'm truly pleased that you are enjoying the story, and I look forward to your comments about future chapters. I know you love Emma, but if you're despairing over the lack of Regina, you'll be happy to know that she'll be back in the next installment with a dastardly plot. I hope you continue to enjoy my writing—I feel it was a bit watered down in Chapter 7, but I will remedy that. I'm trying to refine my style to achieve the proper balance between description and dialogue.

**Lonewolf3676**: As usual, I appreciate your extensive feedback and will be putting it to good use. I hope you will enjoy what I have in store for Regina, and that you will always feel that my characterization/dialogue/description are on the mark. ;)

Thank you all again!


	8. Baby

WARNINGS: Graphic scenes.

* * *

><p>When Regina arrived at the Nolan household, she took the safest course over the slick pavement and scowled as her heels poked holes in the ice. The foul weather had ruined her impractical stiletto boots, but she wore them anyway, in defiance of the winter and all things that reminded her of <em>Snow White.<em>

She resented having to travel across town to enact revenge on that vapid, foolish woman who should have already been wallowing in perpetual misery—

_If only Mary Margaret had been confined to a convent when she had been given the name and the fashion sensibilities of a nun!_

Regina snickered to herself and glared up at the marbleized morning sky. She was keenly aware that her thoughts were shallow and petty, but being introspective was a danger. It entailed fishing in a vast sea of unexplored pain, and monstrosities lurked in those fathomless waters.

Above all else, her actions were dictated by a spiteful thirst for retaliation. Beyond that, she was motivated by a compulsion that was bound to her sense of self-preservation. In seeking vengeance, she ardently believed that she would be cured of her hurt—that by resorting to the most heartless of measures, she could stop herself from feeling.

As she stormed up the steps to the front door, Regina stewed over snapshot memories of Mary Margaret and David as they reveled in the joy of their reunion. Out of habit, she grated her teeth together until her plush mouth became irritated and swollen. She gazed at her own reflection in the windowpane for a long while, experimenting with facial expressions that might mask her bitter loathing.

After a pause, Regina rang the bell and adjusted the collar on her vintage ermine coat. She tucked her chin into the warm fur while she waited to be delivered from the cold.

"Regina," Kathryn chirped as she opened the door. Her nose was bulbous because it had been rubbed sore by too many tissues, and her eyes were misty and unfocused. The home was draftier than usual, and she shivered as she led Regina into the kitchen.

Kathryn went through the pretension of sipping coffee and making small talk, but it was obvious that she had been blindsided by her husband's spontaneous decision to leave her. Her hair was uncombed and she wore no make-up. The living room and kitchen were untidy, and a stack of dishes sat untouched in the sink.

When Regina perched herself in a chair at the table, she noted that David had left behind most of his things.

_That would certainly save him the trouble having to unpack. _

There were only a few boxes pushed neatly into the corner, and some sporting equipment had been abandoned next to the refrigerator. A kayak leaned against the wall, and a stray baseball mitt sat next to the knives on the countertop.

As she drank hot coffee and imagined Mr. Nolan in the process of returning his possessions to their rightful places, Regina used the ceramic mug to conceal her villainous smile.

"I don't understand why he would do this, especially when I thought that I was pregnant not too long ago. I was so convinced that I was having a baby—" Kathryn sniffled. She had been rambling for over thirty minutes, but Regina had only started listening when she heard the word _baby. _

During the previous weeks, Kathryn had informed Regina about the possibility that she was going to be a mother. It seemed like she had shared the news with everyone in town, except for David. When he heard the gossip and confronted his wife, she had satisfied him by taking a home pregnancy test. He was relieved that it came back negative, but Kathryn was mildly disappointed.

Regina had not forgotten their initial discussion about the pregnancy scare. In fact, she had accurately predicted that the subject of babies would come up when she chatted with Kathryn about the dissolution of her marriage.

The circumstances worked naturally in Regina's favor.

"Listen, I would have told you this sooner, but I only just found out—" Regina frowned, and struck a dramatic pose that might make her compassion appear less contrived. Her eyes glittered sadly, and she spoke in a gentle tone of voice. "Your husband has been having an affair. I saw him yesterday with Ms. Mary Margaret Blanchard. "

"What?" Kathryn gasped breathlessly and she shook her head in disbelief. Her cheeks lost their color, and her lip quivered violently. "How could he do this?"

"Maybe he was scared of becoming a father," Regina pointed out. She batted her eyelashes innocuously, and put her hand on Kathryn's shoulder to show her support.

"_No_! This is completely unlike him!" Kathryn squealed. She rocketed out of her chair and stalked over to grab David's baseball mitt, inspecting it as though looking for some clue that would explain his irrational behavior.

While Kathryn's back was turned, Regina dispensed droplets of a volatile substance into the woman's mug.

"What am I going to do?" the blonde cried. Kathryn was ugly when her face was contorted in distress and anger. Without warning, she chucked the baseball mitt against the wall, and kicked the kayak until it clattered over on the floor.

Though Regina anticipated that Kathryn would cry without inhibition, she did not expect her to throw a temper tantrum. She was temporarily quiet because Kathryn's emotional outburst had unsettled her. As she stared bleakly ahead, her eyes became as lackluster as two lumps of coal.

The careful execution of the mayor's scheme hinged on the other woman's complete vulnerability—and yet she felt no genuine pity for her. Regina's hatred overshadowed every other thought and feeling. She divorced herself from the situation, and viewed Kathryn as a pawn in her endgame, rather than her closest friend.

"I'm going to talk to Mary Margaret!" Kathryn declared.

"I don't think that would be wise," Regina advised her. She knew that before the day was over, they would both be paying a visit to Mary Margaret, but there was a chronology to events mapped out in her mind.

"Please sit down," Regina coaxed. "You can't possibly drive in the state you're in." Her features softened as she gave the flawless performance. She stopped brooding long enough to play the role of the concerned confidante. "I can tell that you haven't slept," she told her. "How have you been feeling lately?"

Kathryn slumped at the table, and gulped down her coffee because it was the most immediate remedy for her exhaustion. "Ugh," she sniveled. "I've been better these past few weeks, now that I know I'm not suffering from morning sickness. It's just—my nerves. David always knew how to calm me down. He was so understanding—"

"I'll bet," Regina quipped. Thankfully, Kathryn was too distraught to pick up on the note of sarcasm in her voice.

In a haze, Regina listened to Kathryn's incessant whining until the woman abruptly leapt up from the table and darted into the bathroom. Deciding to spare herself the displeasure of watching Kathryn vomit, Regina lingered in the kitchen for the count of a full minute before getting up to check on her. "Are you okay?" she asked, purely for the purpose of baiting her.

"No," Kathryn groaned, clinging to the toilet. "This is exactly how I felt when I was convinced that I was pregnant."

"Didn't you take one of those home pregnancy tests, dear?" Regina asked. "You know, they can be quite faulty."

Either too overwrought to speak or too stupid to understand, Kathryn merely blinked up her. The rumbling in her stomach had ceased, and she hugged her legs to her chest.

"What are you saying?" Kathryn whispered.

As soon as Kathryn confirmed her stupidity, Regina reached down and helped her up from the floor. "I'm saying that perhaps you should get checked out," she clarified. "I know someone who works down at the healthcare clinic. Why don't you let me pull some strings, and I'll see if I can get you an appointment?" Under other circumstances, Regina would have been more tactful about suggesting such a plan, but unless she was explicit, she felt Kathryn might misunderstand her.

Kathryn was not baffled by Regina's recommendations, but her mind was like a junkyard filled with useless trash. Not one of her thoughts was productive or lucid. All she could do was mutter, "okay."

* * *

><p>The clinic was crowded with women who waddled when they walked and patted their bulging bellies at regular intervals. In the waiting area, Regina pawed through glossy magazines and sneered at advice columns for parents. When a couple tried to engage her in conversation, she told them that she needed to use the restroom and then sauntered down the hall.<p>

In an alcove nearby the exam rooms, she spotted medical charts and vials of blood. After switching the labels on Kathryn's chart and blood sample, she ducked into the bathroom.

Regina's reflection looked like a glimmering mirage in the mirror that hung over the sink. Her eyes were dark prisms that captured the light, and she smiled ruefully at herself. She pulled a tube of lipstick from her pocket, but then reconsidered and tucked it away in her purse.

When Kathryn summoned her into an exam room and tearfully mumbled that she was pregnant, Regina enfolded her in a stiff embrace.

"I'm going up to the school," Kathryn told her. Her sorrow converted itself into rage, and she wasted no time in marching out to the parking lot. "That woman needs to know what she's done."

The landscape outside of the school looked like a savory vanilla cake that had been rutted by the hands of greedy children. Boys and girls were running around in the yard, flinging snowballs at each other. It was recess time, which meant that Mary Margaret was not occupied with her students.

Regina followed Kathryn into the building, but halted by the main office to observe the confrontation from afar.

Outside of her classroom, Mary Margaret was decorating a bulletin board with sparkly foam that had been cut into different shapes: there was a polar bear and a penguin, and snowflakes of varying sizes. She began tacking up student essays about wintertime, but Kathryn knocked the pile of papers out of her hands. Before Mary Margaret could feint and sidestep the attack, Kathryn hit her with a hard slap across the face. The sound echoed through the hollow building, and left a welt on Ms. Blanchard's pale cheek.

"How dare you come between me and my husband?" Kathryn hissed.

Mary Margaret cupped the left side of her face, and watched as her students filed back into the hallway and paraded down to the cafeteria. "I'm so sorry, Kathryn," she stammered.

"We kissed, but I swear I never let it go further than that," Mary Margaret insisted. "Not until after David decided to move out." Though she tried to keep her voice to a loud whisper, she glanced sideways and knew instantly that the third and fourth grade teachers were eavesdropping on their conversation. Ms. Rehnquist and Mrs. Gabler had been clucking like chickens, but they silenced themselves and turned their attention to Kathryn.

"So you're saying that you slept with my husband?" Kathryn roared. "Am I supposed to feel better about that because it happened after he walked out on our marriage?" In spite of only being a few inches taller than Mary Margaret, she had an imposing presence, especially when she was spitting out questions.

"No," Mary Margaret told her. "I'm sure you feel angry and betrayed. I'm sure that you're—"

"Stop guessing," Kathryn demanded. "I'll tell you exactly how I feel."

"How—how do you feel?" Mary Margaret asked her. She timidly backed herself against a row of lockers, looking small.

"I feel sick!" Kathryn snapped. "And not just because my husband has been fooling around with you, but because I was throwing up all morning! I'm pregnant!" She lost momentum and shrank away from Mary Margaret, choking on her own snot.

As Regina approached, she stared down her nose at Mary Margaret, with her arms wound tightly in front of her.

Kathryn was like a robotic tank toy running low on batteries. Regina would have to break out her own arsenal of weapons if she wanted the battle to continue.

Wordlessly, the mayor handed her car keys to her so-called friend, and waited until Kathryn was out of view before trampling over the student papers that Mary Margaret was trying to gather up.

"Home wrecker." Regina took a cruel satisfaction from taunting and humiliating her in front of the other teachers. "You better watch your husband around this tramp," she told Mrs. Gabler.

Mary Margaret retreated into her classroom and collapsed against her desk, unable to think or breathe. She groped blindly for the tissue box, but her arm collided with a shiny glass apple that had been a holiday gift from her students.

The apple smashed onto the floor, and red shards shot like bloody daggers in every direction.

Henry was huddled in the corner, but he hurried over to Mary Margaret when he saw her crawling around on the floor—she was trying to pick up the pieces of broken glass and of her broken heart.

"What happened?" Henry asked. He pulled her wrist away from the shattered ornament, and knelt down beside her. In his school uniform and blazer, he looked sophisticated and mature beyond his years.

"Henry," Mary Margaret smiled to counteract her tears. "Why aren't you at lunch?"

"I hid in the classroom because I didn't want to talk to my mom," he conceded. "What was she doing here?"

"She—" Mary Margaret's throat closed over before she could communicate a reason for Regina's presence. Henry ripped a wad of tissues out of the box on her desk and gave them to her. She blew her nose, but shook her head to convey that she was incapable of speaking.

"You should go home," Henry counseled her. When she was stationary and quiet for too long, he pressed her with another question. "She upset you, didn't she?"

"I—" Mary Margaret could produce only one syllable at a time. Allowing Henry to see her in this state of discomposure had sent her brain into a tailspin. Her thoughts were racketing around chaotically in her mind.

"Call Emma. Ask her to come get you," Henry persuaded her. To further encourage Mary Margaret, he sifted through the contents of her desk drawer, and searched for her cell phone. It was buried under a tin of mints and a tiny bottle of perfume. He had trouble locating it because it was an obsolete model.

Mary Margaret accepted the phone from him and clicked the button that would speed dial Emma's number. As she listened to it ring, she realized that she was anxious about talking to her roommate.

That morning, Emma had not bothered to excuse herself from breakfast before leaving the apartment. She tiptoed around in the kitchen and skittishly fled when David asked her to pass the sugar.

To Mary Margaret, it felt like a devastating relapse. Emma's defenses were elevated to skyscraper heights, and Mary Margaret imagined precise builders at work on a commissioned project, erecting a structure that would enclose indefinitely around her young friend.

Since Emma would not speak to her earlier, Mary Margaret doubted she would speak to her now.

After spending hours meeting with townspeople who worked and lived in the area where her body was discovered, Emma was weary. Everybody had theories about what happened, and no one was shied away from sharing their opinions. Mr. Bartleby candidly informed her that she was a "nice young gal" and "good looking, too." He also warned her that she had "better watch out for men who know how to take advantage of a sweet little thing."

Mrs. Cramer told her outright that she "didn't see nothing" or "hear nothing," but that Emma "ought to keep" her "private bedroom matters" to herself. Even after Emma explained that the incident was not the result of a lovers' spat, Mrs. Cramer wished her a good day and told her to buy a baseball bat, that way she could give her boyfriend a "rap or two" if he tried to beat her again.

Coby Reynolds had given her a cup of coffee, and rather casually invited her on a date because he "knew how to treat a lady." He was a burly man with tattoos on both of his arms, but his sweet personality negated his tough guy image.

After meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, who sincerely hoped a "young girl" like Emma was taking the "proper precautions" to avoid another "unwanted pregnancy," she parked on the side of the road. She was behind the wheel of her yellow Volkswagen because her patrol vehicle was still in the shop.

The sun was bandaged behind a cottony cloud, and Emma stared into the distance until her phone began to vibrate. Since it was the middle of the day, she could only assume that Mary Margaret was contacting her because of some emergency. Otherwise, Emma would not have taken the call.

It surprised Mary Margaret when Emma answered, but she was soothed to hear the familiar voice.

"Hey, it's me," Mary Margaret told her.

"What's up?" Emma canted her head so she could hold the phone between her ear and shoulder.

Mary Margaret detected an inconsistency in Emma's voice, and she wondered briefly if she had been crying.

"I need—a ride home from school today," Mary Margaret spluttered. When she noticed Henry monitoring her, she stood up and brushed the dust from the back of her skirt. "David dropped me off this morning, but he won't be able to pick me up. We can't see each other—"

Though Mary Margaret was being vague, Emma understood the unspoken message and agreed to wait for her in front of the school at four o'clock.

At the appointed time, Mary Margaret hurried out to the car, and slid into the passenger's seat. Henry was with her, but when he glimpsed Emma, he scampered away to sit on a bench. He opened his backpack and took out a notebook because he would rather do his homework than look at her.

Emma felt her chest ache with despair as she steered away from the school and drove out of view of Henry. Her mood did not improve as Mary Margaret described what had unfolded with Kathryn Nolan.

Once they were alone in the apartment, Mary Margaret changed into her fuzzy slippers and loitered in her bedroom.

Emma peeked through the curtain that separated Mary Margaret's space from the rest of the house, and stepped cautiously around it.

"I'll make you some cocoa," Emma proposed. Her voice sounded very small and tinny.

"No, thank you," Mary Margaret whispered. She had curled up on the mattress in a fetal position, and her eyes were rimmed in red. The textured bedspread was tangled around her legs because she could not muster the requisite strength to yank it up to her chin.

"Do you want to be alone?" Emma posed the question quietly, as if she feared the answer. In brief suspense, her face fell and she readied herself in case Mary Margaret told her to leave.

"No," Mary Margaret murmured. She grappled with a pillow because she needed the physical comfort of holding onto something. Her world felt as fragile as a crystal bauble. All of her hopes were crushable. _David had lied to her._ She repeated the phrase in her head like a litany, so that she would not forget it.

Emma felt uneasy at first because she was not well versed in consoling upset friends. She ambled over and slowly lowered herself into place next to Mary Margaret. Even though the brunette had established that she wanted the company, Emma kept to her side of the invisible line that divided the bed.

It was not until Mary Margaret tossed around to look at her that Emma knew that she had authorization to speak.

"This is going to sound silly." Emma downplayed her words, but her sorrowful smile betrayed that there was some significance to what she was about to say. She mulled it over, and then proceeded:

"When I was little, if I was feeling unsafe or upset, I imagined that my arms were—long, reaching branches." Emma paused and stretched her limbs, as though to demonstrate. She eyed Mary Margaret and tried to determine what she thought of her childish nonsense.

Mary Margaret stared back at her without scrutiny or judgment.

After rustling around in the blankets, Emma scooted closer to her roommate and admitted, "I would pretend that I was a tree. Strong and sturdy. Rooted to the ground."

"I know that you're upset," she told her. "But no one is stronger than you—" Emma's voice tapered off before she could make her final point.

David Nolan interrupted her thoughts by banging at their door.

* * *

><p>The thatched hut reeked of sweat and the stench of decaying babies, but the midwife put a rag doused in smelling salts over the young woman's face to prevent her from blacking out.<p>

The girl remained alert throughout the night, listening to the dissonant grunts and groans of dying women. She bucked and whimpered every time she felt the pang of her own contractions, and her knuckles whitened as she squeezed at her thighs to cope with the pain.

There was no one whose hand she could hold.

The midwife returned and removed the girl's pantaloons, ripping them down with one rough motion because she could not spare the moment it required to be gentle. In the light from the nearest oil lamp, shadows skipped around the wall and caroused like demons.

"What's your name, child?" the midwife inquired, as she hustled to grab clean linens.

"G," the girl answered her. Exposed and helpless, she began to cry. She was frightened because she did not know what was supposed to happen. Blood spilled down her legs and she tried to scramble away from her cot, but the midwife restrained her.

"If you don't want this bed, there are a dozen other women who will take it," the old woman warned her. "Now, tell me. Is 'G' a nickname?"

"Regina," she snuffled. "My name is Regina." Obediently, she sprawled out on the cot and spread her knees so the midwife could check her dilation. The baby was crowning, and her body convulsed from the awful pressure in her groin.

"That's a pretty name for a young woman," the midwife muttered, if only for the sake of distracting her.

Regina's vision dissolved as she felt herself split open. The ceiling was the gaping mouth of a hell beast, devouring her into blackness. Her last thought was that she desperately wanted her mother.

When she later regained consciousness, Regina heard the loud caterwauling of a newborn.

"We're not through yet, dear," the old woman insisted.

The midwife delivered the placenta while her apprentice carried the child away to be cleaned.

Not far from the washbasins, a man stood cradling a limp baby in his arms. He wrapped his ailing son in a thick blanket of the finest lamb's wool, and went to the bedside of his sick wife. It pained him to look at her, because he believed she would join their child in the afterlife before morning.

From a distance, he observed as the apprentice scrubbed a babe with a rosy complexion and a strong set of lungs. When she scuttled away and left the child squirming on a pile of rags, the man stealthily encroached and performed an exchange: he deposited his own son where the babe had been, and took the healthy boy into his arms. It was a decision made without compunction or forethought.

The apprentice came back, scooped up the changeling, and brought him to Regina.

The man rocked the young girl's new baby, and cooed softly to him as he paced around and prayed that his wife would reawaken. After the passing of two candle marks, his beloved weakly beckoned to him from her bed.

"Rumpel," she smiled, extending her arms to receive their child. "I was so afraid, but I should have trusted that our son would be strong. What shall we call him?"

"Baelfire," Rumpelstiltskin croaked. He could hear the sounds of the young woman sobbing in the next room. "His name will be Baelfire," he repeated.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: So, I worked hard on this chapter, but I'm not sure how I feel about it. If you're out there reading, pretty please review this segment, because I'm curious to know what people think. Obviously much of this chapter focused on Regina, but I'm still not sure that I did her justice.

Also, there are a lot of folk stories about "changelings." If you're bored and unfamiliar with that term, you might want to google it.

On a side note, I have to say that I felt episode 1x13 was mildly ridiculous. It inspired me to want to damage David & MM's relationship in my fic just so I could write my own version of events. So much of 1x13 seemed out of character to me!

But, anyway.

In the next chapter, I'll get back to focusing on Mary Margaret, Emma, David & the writer.

Here are some specific comments for people who are **AWESOME** and reviewed my work:

**Paladin of Farore**: Thank you for the feedback! If it were not for everyone's reviews (however few they may be), I would probably stop working on this piece. So, truly—your comments are valuable to me. I hope you enjoy this chapter, though the focus is mainly on Regina. I definitely feel more at ease when I'm writing Emma & MM, so hopefully you'll still feel I was spot-on with the characterization for this segment of the text.

**KJohnson17**: So glad you found the last chapter endearing! I figured you all needed a pay-off before I shattered your hopes & dreams for the MM/David relationship. Don't despair, though—there will be more family scenes in subsequent chapters! Also: I appreciate your feedback about my writing! I was really concerned that my style was preventing people from reading my work. :(

**Lonewolf3676**: Emma is definitely struggling, but she's not allowed to break down yet. We have a long way to go—many, many more chapter before she'll be permitted to officially crack. And even then, she might be too stubborn to give in. Maybe. But you'll just have to wait and see! Thank you again for all of your comments and your support. I truly hope you feel that I've done Regina justice in this chapter!

**gostlcards**: I'm flattered by your comments! I hope you always feel the same way when I update my work. I'm so honored that my fic is one of your favorites. :)  
>And don't you worry—you will be seeing many more scenes from EmmaJake's relationship. You'll also get more MM/David/Emma family fun time. And I will **absolutely **be giving my personal take on how they realize that they are related. Finally, _YES_—Jacob and William! So happy you understood where I was going with that.

**marine_cathedral**: I appreciate you being my "shield" against the passive voice. I SWEAR, though—it is a rhetorical device! But, yes—I do need to watch how I use it. Thanks for reading bits & pieces of the chapters before they are posted! And thank you for posting a pity review- :P


	9. Books

**WARNINGS:** Violence, graphic scenes.

* * *

><p>The wind roared to rally an oncoming storm. Hail and sleet pelted the pavement, and by the time David scrambled up the steps to the apartment, he was shaking.<p>

Clad only in a long-sleeved thermal shirt and a pair of jeans, he kept his hands from becoming frostbitten by alternately shoving them into his pockets.

Earlier, he had gone home to find his wife sorting through a small box of items that belonged to him. Among his cufflinks and pins, Kathryn had discovered a filigree pendant in the shape of a sunflower, and she was wearing it when he hurtled himself into the kitchen. The piece of jewelry reminded him of his own mother.

David balked when he saw the dainty necklace on Kathryn, but she bombarded him with questions before he could ask her to return it to the box. When she at last revealed that she was pregnant, he stumbled away from her. Waylaid by a hallucinatory fit, he zoned out while she blathered on about marriage counseling, doctor's appointments and preparations for the nursery.

He felt a weight in his arms, and when he glanced down, there was a babe nestled in the crook of his elbow, making kittenish sounds. Her hair was a tuft of honey colored fuzz, and it was soft when he brushed his lips against her temple.

Holding the child both devastated and thrilled him. His sorrow and happiness sang out in synchronicity, like two voices belting out a cacophonous duet.

The vision was more vivid than any memory of his life with Kathryn.

He wanted to tell her about the daydream, but instead he picked up his baseball mitt and punched his fist into the leather. After a lengthy conversation about their future together, he lied to his wife and fled.

David drove without a destination in mind. When he passed by Mr. Gold's pawnshop, sleet began to fall. The icy rain defiled the snow and left the roadways slippery.

As he changed routes, he functioned by mechanical compulsion; his thoughts presented themselves as bad computations. He knew ultimately that he loved Mary Margaret, but there was no solution to the problem of his marriage. If he were a man of honor, he would stay with his wife and take care of his unborn child.

And yet he had the unshakable sense that he was already responsible for someone else_—_

The sweet baby still haunted his waking dreams: he could hear her frightened, high-pitched mewling.

Whether wittingly or not, David had sworn his devotion to two women: Mary Margaret, and the imaginary infant who somehow reinforced his connection to her.

When he parked outside of the apartment that had briefly seemed like his home, he realized that he was seeking some justification for how he felt. It disturbed him that Kathryn's pregnancy felt like a sham when he compared it to a mere illusion, but he could not reconcile his rash urges: he wanted to be with Mary Margaret, regardless of the consequences.

As he pounded at the door, he tried to quiet his escalating anxiety. His limbs were becoming rubbery and numb, and he was not sure how much longer he could endure the cold. The heater in his truck had broken and his jacket was still stored away in the closet where Kathryn had hung it. "Please, Mary Margaret," he begged for deliverance.

Another person might have ignored him until he went away, but Mary Margaret's instincts prompted her to be humane, no matter how it might affect her. She heard his cries, and her heart plummeted like a jumper without a parachute.

"I'm going to tell him to leave," she muttered to Emma.

Mary Margaret was sitting cross-legged with her back against the wrought iron bed frame. As she shifted to get up, she could feel an indentation near her shoulder blades from where the cool metal post had pressed into her skin. Chilled, she paused to put on her robe before hastening out into the foyer—

The moment he saw her, David became tongue-tied and oafish; he reached out and grabbed the tassel on her bathrobe.

Mary Margaret wrenched herself away from him, and her face compressed inward as she frowned. "What are you doing here_, David_? Go home to your wife," she sputtered. "She needs your support—"

David took her hand and studied it fastidiously; he ran his thumb over the whorls and curves in her palm as though he was reading her secret wishes and unspoken desires. "I—need—you," he murmured.

They remained static until Mary Margaret conquered her mutinous emotions and resolved to make him to leave. "You—lied—to me," she hissed.

He was passive until she shouted at him, "You're going to be a father!"

Each word was like a domino falling into the next, setting off a chain reaction in her mind. She envisioned herself at his side, curled under a velvety bedspread that had the texture and appearance of dark moss. Before he awakened, she had kissed that same phrase into his ear: _you are going to be a father. _

The image soon dispersed, but her distress was inexorable.

When she glanced up at him, David looked unrecognizably depleted and sorry. He released her hand, bowed his head, and picked at a hangnail. Then he nodded once to indicate that he understood his obligation to Kathryn, and walked away.

Mary Margaret closed the door and floated around the apartment until she crash-landed at her sewing desk. Her body was wracked with sobs, and she could feel her rib cage strain as her lungs struggled to inflate. She used a scrap of cloth to dab at her eyes, and coughed until her throat felt wooly and sore.

Emma attempted to lead her to bed, but Mary Margaret latched onto her and refused to budge. They huddled together on the floor, with their legs in a haphazard cluster.

As Emma uttered a hushed reassurance, she went through a succession of experiments to comfort Mary Margaret: she kneaded the muscles in her back, and skimmed her fingers through the short bob of her brownish hair. She was clumsy and awkward at first, but because the brunette was so out of sorts, she persisted until her friend's wheezing subsided.

Before she was through crying, Mary Margaret's beige robe looked like a watercolor painting of a horrible woman: shimmery rouge, pastel lipstick and pale eye shadow had printed the rough outline of her face into the fabric.

* * *

><p>Much later, when they were both settled under a blanket on the couch, Mary Margaret leafed through a musty old book, while Emma lounged with her feet on the coffee table.<p>

For the most part, Mary Margaret was inert and unengaged, but when Emma mentioned that they ought to sleep, she became manic.

"I forgot to do the dishes," she explained, and then scuttled off into the kitchen, where she slipped her hands into a pair of latex gloves.

Mary Margaret scrubbed the pots and pans until they were spotless and shiny, while Emma observed with tired eyes. The room smelled like lemony soap, disinfectant and stove top cleaner.

After the sink was clear and the cabinets were re-organized, Mary Margaret mopped the floors and polished the silverware. The blonde napped with her head on a placemat, but when she felt a spoon poking her gently in the shoulder, she sat upright.

"Bedtime," Mary Margaret announced, though she was clearly too wound up to rest. "Want to sleep in my room tonight? I promise not to hog the covers."

"Was last night an anomaly? 'Cause you were definitely hogging the covers when I woke up this morning." Emma smirked as they went into the bedroom.

In answer to that, Mary Margaret chucked a cushion at her, but Emma caught it and added it to the hoard of pillows on her side of the mattress.

They turned out the lights and snuggled into the flower patch of blankets.

As they lapsed into silence, each woman was forced to deal with her own thoughts.

Mary Margaret played a game similar to pin the tail on the donkey, but no matter her tactics, she was unable to tack the blame onto David. In the end, she condemned only herself.

"I should have listened to you," Mary Margaret whispered to Emma. She shuttered her eyes, overcome by a surge of shame and guilt.

"You did listen to me," Emma pointed out, but her voice sounded far away. She was staring at the depressions on the stone wall. They looked like moon craters in the darkness.

"Have—you—ever been in love?"

She wondered if the question had come from Mary Margaret, or if it had originated in her own mind, but Emma answered, "yes."

"What was he like?" Mary Margaret wanted to know. "The man you loved," she clarified, in case it was not obvious.

"Dangerous." Emma swallowed the adjective faster than a pill. In the stillness, she could hear the ticking of her own heart.

Mary Margaret propped herself up on an elbow and glanced at Emma, recalling her ramblings from the night before. "How did you get over him?" she asked.

Emma turned around so that Mary Margaret only had a partial view of her face. "By running away," she breathed.

"Did that—work?"

Without giving a response, Emma shut down like an overheated machine.

In the subsequent silence, Mary Margaret chided herself until she fell asleep.

* * *

><p>August W. Booth had rented a garage space for the purpose of storing his bike, but when he noticed the workbench along the wall, he unpacked the tools of his trade and spread them out over the ample surface. He took the storybook from within the red footlocker in which he had found it, and dismantled the loose binding with painstaking caution. After soaking the pages in a restorative solution, he strung them up on a clothesline to dry.<p>

Mr. Booth eventually stitched the heirloom back together, but not before he inserted illustrations and several chapters of his own design.

Sheriff Swan was not at the station when he left the footlocker in the lost and found, but she was there an hour later when he stopped by to see her.

Even before she heard him, Emma had sensed his approach: his jaunty swagger was distinctive, and gave his footfalls a unique rhythm.

August's voice was low and cajoling, and his eyes became infused with an electric energy as he set his sights on her. "Hey there, beautiful," he purred.

Since she had not slept the night before, Emma had spent the morning drinking black coffee from one of Mary Margaret's large travel mugs. It was exactly the type of present that a student would give to a teacher, but she suspected the woman had actually purchased it herself: it was covered in happy-looking daisies that appeared to be holding hands and singing songs.

He grinned when he glimpsed the mug, and canted his head to get a better view of the smiling daises. "And here I thought you were tough," he chuckled. "Turns out you're a softie."

"You weren't convinced of that after seeing me in a ridiculous pink sweater?" she scoffed.

"No," he told her. "I was too busy thinking about what you had on underneath the sweater." Before she could react, he startled her by snatching the tiny flag from the top of her desk. "I _expect_ to find cast iron, but maybe I should be imagining lace—"

"You can keep on imagining," she quipped, ripping the flag away from him.

He sank down in a chair across from her and watched as she scrolled through a database of town records on the computer.

She was engrossed in reading the digital files that detailed Mr. Gold's contractually binding legal agreements. Three documents crowded the screen and she printed out copies of each one.

Belatedly, Emma became aware that August's eyes were still on her: she had the sense that they were touring the places that his hands craved to go. Much as he liked to joke, she knew he was attracted to her, and his scrutiny caused her cheeks to glow hotly. "Is there a reason you came to see me?" she asked.

"I misplaced my wallet," he explained. It was a gift from my late mother. It has—sentimental value." While he listened to the click-clack of her typing, he rousted around in his seat. He blinked twice, and thrummed his fingers over his knee as though playing a percussion instrument.

"I guess we could check the lost and found," she murmured. After motioning for him to follow her, she wandered down the hall.

In an overflowing box of coats and hats, Emma spotted the red footlocker; she dug it out of the pile and hugged it to her chest. Feeling both elated and charitable, she helped August to scour the bins that might contain his lost wallet.

With his back turned to her, August rifled through a number of boxes. "It's not here," he informed her. He was being honest with Emma; ten years had passed since he last saw the leather billfold.

"Don't give up so easily," she chastised him, but after twenty minutes of searching, the only wallet that Emma uncovered was neon green and had a strip of white Velcro. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "Hopefully someone will turn it in. Did you at least call the credit card companies?"

"That _would_ be the logical thing to do. Wouldn't want anyone stealing my identity," he laughed. August selected his words carefully, living up to the legacy of his namesake: Wayne C. Booth was a rhetorician, after all. He silently congratulated himself on choosing the perfect pseudonym.

When he had promised that he was not going to lie to her, he meant it—but the medium of language could be manipulated. Books could be edited, sentences could be adjusted—all stories, even personal ones, could be re-written and changed.

His smile grew wider than his ego, but she smiled along with him because his gaiety was infectious. "I'm sure I'll find it," he told her. "I'll let you get back to work."

Acquiescing, Emma lifted the footlocker from where she had left it on the floor, and bustled back into her office.

"What do you have there?" he asked, trailing along behind her.

"It's—a long story," she remarked. "No pun intended." As she threw open the lid on the footlocker, Emma took the book into her arms and circled her finger around the 'O' in _Once_.

August gave the book a dismissive glance. "Looks like a classic," he commented.

"It's just—a bunch of fairytales," she insisted, but her tone betrayed her emotional attachment to the stories within. Emma put the book into her satchel and then began labeling a stack of manila folders.

"Let me take you to dinner," he abruptly proposed. When she looked reluctant, August decided to tease her. "Come on, I won't even complain if you want to bring your chaperones," he jested.

Emma faltered over the indirect accusation, but she finally agreed to go to dinner with him.

* * *

><p>"I think we should wash your hair," Mary Margaret mused, as she nibbled on a spear of asparagus. She pinned Emma with the look she gave to the pots when they were in need of cleaning.<p>

The apartment was immaculate, but Mary Margaret had not yet expended her energies. After a long day at work, she whirred around inexhaustibly, finished her chores, and cooked a sumptuous dinner. To keep herself from ruminating over the gossip that she overheard in the lunchroom, and to prevent herself from thinking of David, she required constant entertainment.

As soon as Emma came home, Mary Margaret enlisted her to be the new distraction: she checked over the sheriff's injuries, force-fed her a snack, and painted her nails with a crimson lacquer.

Emma behaved like a small breed of dog that tolerated being stuffed into embellished collars and heinous outfits; she good-naturedly submitted to Mary Margaret's incessant pestering and prodding.

Since Mary Margaret had volunteered to help Emma wash her hair in the sink until the stitches were removed, she nodded when the brunette made the suggestion over dinner.

Mary Margaret offered to clear away the plates while she fetched her shampoo, but Emma's plate was still on the table when she walked back into the kitchen.

"Why didn't you eat your vegetables?" Mary Margaret whined.

To avoid the inevitable nagging, Emma crammed the asparagus into her mouth. Without once complaining about having to ingest a food that looked and smelled as delicious as a tree, she hopped up onto the countertop and positioned her head over the sink. Mary Margaret moved in next to her and squeezed a dollop of shampoo into her hand.

"I have a date with August tomorrow night," Emma announced, if only to keep her diverted.

Up to her elbows in suds, sorrow and spangled, golden hair, Mary Margaret delighted in the opportunity to discuss any man who was not David. "That's—great," she beamed.

"August—reminds me of someone," Emma spoke guardedly. "He's—pretty slick."

Mary Margaret popped a glistening bubble that had formed under the blonde woman's earlobe. "Does he remind you of Jake?" she boldly asked.

When she heard the name, Emma disassociated herself from the conversation, and concentrated on sensation. The steady stream from the faucet poured over her, and goose bumps rose on her skin.

"Look, I know you would rather not talk about it," Mary Margaret sighed. "I know he must have mistreated you."

Astounded by her own daring, the brunette braved onward, if only because she had been holding back for too long. "_A lot_ of people must have done that, for you to be so afraid to trust," she observed. With a hitch in her breath, she determined to broach the subject that had been plaguing her. "After everything that has happened these past few days, I have to ask, Emma. Were you abus-"

Suddenly sickened, Emma considered running to her room, but she knew her hair would drip on the clean floor. Her green eyes blackened like the sea after an oil spill. All she could do was beg for mercy and silence. "Please," she whispered. "_Please_."

Mary Margaret took Emma's hand and wordlessly communicated with her, feeling heartbroken all over again: she rinsed out her long blonde hair, wrapped it securely in a towel, and then kissed her sweetly on the forehead.

* * *

><p>In the port of Cyme, there was a fleet of burning ships that bore the crest of King Midas' household. From the beach, James thought that his own vessel looked like a damned soul, shuddering and swaying in fiery agony. The mast collapsed and the deck belched up flame. The sail disintegrated into ash and scattered to the wind.<p>

After James had slain the siren, Abigail was reunited with Frederick. To show her gratitude for his heroic deed, she granted him a battalion of trained warriors to use at his disposal. The army had journeyed with him across the sea to find a cure that was potent enough to restore Snow White's memory.

An oracle had advised him to seek the juniper tree that grew in a distant land. When crushed and mixed with other ingredients, the berries from the tree could produce the most lustrous of inks. Once he acquired the ink, James would be able to barter for an enchantment that could mend a forgetful mind—

He courageously undertook the passage over the ocean, procured the items that he needed, and returned home with his troops.

It was not until they set anchor that one of his men shouted the warning from the crow's nest.

"King George!" the man hollered, pointing at the battle standard that jutted up from the sand dunes.

Knights and mercenary pirates swarmed the deck, burying their swords into the chests of Midas' soldiers.

James had tasted the arterial blood spray of his dying first mate.

When the mate became still and his eyes gelled over, James tried helplessly to clot another man's wounds. Intestines gushed out of the gap in young man's abdomen, and unraveled across the floorboards like a fat, stretching worm.

Disembodied limbs saturated the ship in red. Their enemies took trophies in body parts: eyes, tongues, and beating hearts.

King George's men had James surrounded, but he slit their throats and chopped at their legs.

James was captured alive, but he slaughtered the pirate who planned to turn him in for a handsome reward before his wrists could be tied. If not for the anarchy on board the ship, he would have certainly been a prisoner.

For days James wandered and survived on meager meals, until a kindly farmer loaned him a horse. He rode first to King Midas' court and reported news of the battle; then he went to Snow White and took solace in her company.

In a pouch that hung around his neck, he had salvaged the bottle of juniper ink.

"No matter the hardships we must face, I _will_ love you," he declared, kissing the interior of her palm as she slept.

Beyond the hills of the kingdom lived a mystic named Heinrich, who professed to know the types and patterns of all things: his den was filled with sweet incense, ancient books and the relics of prominent men. If anyone in those parts would know what to do with the ink, it was the hermit who consulted the constellations and befriended the thunder.

When James arrived, the aging man regarded him with solemn diffidence, and continued puffing on his pipe until he was presented with the ink.

"You are a fool to bring this to me," he told the prince. Heinrich was tempted to smash the vial, but instead he gave it back to the younger man.

"Please," James entreated him. "The woman I—"

"I _understand_ why you are here," the old man assured him. "You are pursued by King George," he hummed.

As he paced over to a shelf and removed a leather-bound book, Heinrich rattled off the other perceivable reasons for James' presence: "Your _dear_ Snow White has no recollection of _you_—" He swilled the words around on his tongue, as if determining the flavor of them. "And a wicked queen conspires to destroy your love," he concluded.

"If you understand, then take this!" James shouted, thrusting the ink back into Heinrich's hands.

"No," he refused. "I will use the ink to record your memories in this book. When I am through, you shall take it with you." The old man sat down at his table and opened the volume to a blank page.

"But how am I to repay you?" the prince asked.

"I have not yet told you what you must do," Heinrich reminded him. "You will take the book and read to your beloved. After you have done that, you must return it to me." He dipped his quill into the ink and scrawled a spell over the parchment.

Later, James accepted the book from Heinrich and vowed that he would honor his commitment to bring it back. He put the text into his saddlebag, and spurred his horse into a gallop as he rode in the direction of the cottage where Snow awaited him.

Rain and wind delayed his passage, but he persevered and stood at Snow White's side before another day was lost.

When she listened to the story, Snow leapt headlong into his arms. James left feathery kisses along her jaw and cried tears of happiness.

"It's you," she squealed. "_I love—you_."

The echo of those words resonated in his mind and became embedded in the trove where he kept his most treasured memories. A fortnight later, he thought of them again as he ventured across the hills to visit Heinrich.

The hermit's den was untouched, but someone had stolen one of his prized baubles. James might not have recognized the absence of the ornament, if he had not found the old man lying disemboweled outside: his gnarled fingers were clamped around a silver casing, but the relic it formerly enclosed was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: Pretty please R&R? I'll grant you three wishes—or three hundred more chapters.

Cookies for anyone who has theories about Heinrich –

**Lonewolf3676**: I'm glad you find Regina's plot to be evil queen worthy. I hope you will be equally amused as I continue to develop her backstory. Some things to look forward to: Rumpelstiltskin/Mr. Gold's return in the next chapter. Baelfire will also make an appearance—

**KJohnson17**: I'm happy you sympathized with Regina, because that was exactly my manipulative intention. Hopefully you'll be equally as enthused about this chapter. Can't wait to read your comments. ;]

**Vanamo**: I stay up all night to write. Sadly, I am not joking. Around 6 AM, I was working on the final scene for this chapter. Feel free to review my story at any time, now that I've announced to the general public that I have no life. I won't judge you.

Also—you will have to wait to have your questions answered about Regina/Rumpelstiltskin. But it will be worth it, I hope.


	10. Name

**WARNINGS: **Graphic violence of a nonconsensual sexual nature; sex.

The warnings are there for a reason. Keep that in mind, assuming you choose to proceed. If you would like to skip the scene altogether, it's in the second part-

* * *

><p>Snowflakes spun like ballet dancers, executing their jeté en masse before performing their final pirouettes. The wind oohed and aahed as the winter storm picked up momentum over Storybrooke and paved the streets in white. Before first daylight, Emma skated across the frosty sidewalk and took in the sight of the town. After another night without sleep, she felt delirious and giddy with exhaustion. She pressed her mittens into her tearstained cheeks, childishly stuck out her tongue to catch a fleck of ice, and laughed at some private thought. When she began to scrape the slush from the windshield on her Volkswagen, her smile waned into a wistful frown.<p>

While Emma shoveled a path in front of their doorway, Mary Margaret emerged from the apartment with a breakfast sandwich and a thermos of hot chocolate. As she fussed with Emma's hat, she badgered her into taking exactly six bites of the sandwich. Satisfied with that number, she went back inside to get ready for work, and reappeared with a pathetic looking pout on her face. She wrangled the scarf from around her neck with the fleeting impression that it was responsible for being uncooperative and ruffled. "_Silly_ scarf," she mumbled under her breath, while flinging it haphazardly over her shoulder.

Emma glanced meaningfully at the brunette. In lieu of asking about the untimely wardrobe malfunction, she motioned for her to get into the car. With a quick nod, Mary Margaret hustled around to the passenger's seat.

As she put her foot on the gas and veered away from their apartment, Emma drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and allowed her eyes to rove away from the road. "I was thinking that maybe we should go to Gold's gala," she breathed. She refrained from telling Mary Margaret that she suspected the pawnbroker of assaulting her, on the basis that he starred in several of her unsettling dreams.

"W-what?" Mary Margaret stuttered. Her purse was open on her lap and she had been digging around in search of chapstick. Instead she found a pack of mints, a piece of gum, four bobby pins, and a box of chalk that had somehow gotten misplaced. Popping one of the mints into her mouth, she lisped as she spoke, "I don' thin' that is sush a good idea."

Emma studied her reflection in the overhead mirror, debating whether or not to burden her friend with unnecessary worry. After thorough deliberation, she fabricated an excuse that might spare Mary Margaret the added stress. "Come with me. If I don't go, everyone will think that I stayed home because of recent—events." Mary Margaret might not accept that as her reason for wanting to attend the gala, but Emma had never met anyone who responded so eagerly to the word _please. _As soon as she formed the "plee" sound on her lips, she felt assured that her friend would agree. "_Plee-ase_," she whined.

Mary Margaret accidentally swallowed her mint, and when it lodged itself in her throat, she coughed fitfully to clear the obstruction from her airway. By the time they parked outside of the school, her breathing righted itself and she was able to voice her decision. "I _repeatedly_ remind my students that the magic word is _please,_ so I would feel like a hypocrite if I said no," she sighed. "What are we going to wear?"

Giving Mary Margaret a dubious look, Emma hooked her arm through the strap on her leather satchel and followed her towards the building. "I'll let you figure that out," she told her.

During the previous evening, Emma asked Mary Margaret's permission to pull Henry out of class so that she could return the storybook to him. Since someone had spray-painted Mary Margaret's station wagon with defamations, Emma also offered to drive her to work and lend her the keys to the Volkswagen. Mr. Tillman had left a message on her cellphone, promising that her patrol vehicle would be "good as new" before noon that day. The body shop was within a short walking distance of the school, so it was no great inconvenience to Emma.

Mary Margaret accepted the keys to the car, but promptly dropped them in excitement when Emma announced that she would have free rein to choose their gowns for the gala. To Mary Margaret, the gesture represented a demonstration of trust on Emma's part, rather than a white waving flag of surrender to the fashion overlord. Her eyes became wide when she imagined all of the possibilities, and she smiled as she pictured the blonde in a flouncy dress accented by rhinestones. "Oh! How do you feel about bows?" she gushed.

The bell rang before Emma could reply, but her brow clenched inward as she visualized herself covered head-to-toe in bows, like a present that had been wrapped by an enthusiastic child. "Have a good day," she told her roommate, reluctant to destroy her fun.

With a grin on her face, Mary Margaret hurried into the classroom.

Five minutes later, Henry shuffled out into the hallway. "I'm missing a lesson about the solar system," he muttered, flaring his nostrils. His mouth had not yet grown to accommodate his front teeth, and as he spoke, the 's' syllables became elongated. When he glanced up Emma, he wrung his hands together and squinted as though he was looking into direct sunlight.

Emma knelt in front of him, putting them at the same height; she stared earnestly into his eyes, and leaned in as close as she could get without crossing the invisible boundary that separated them. "Henry, I—"

A solitary teardrop plopped onto her hand, and Emma could not tell whether it was his, or hers. He sniffled as he stepped away from her, but came to a standstill when she abruptly dumped her satchel out on the floor. The contents of her bag flew in every direction, but she scooped up the book and held it out to Henry. Hesitantly, he stretched his arms out to receive it, and Emma drew in a sharp breath of relief.

"Where did you find it?" he asked quietly, flipping through the pages until he got to the place where Emma had removed a section of the story.

"At the station," she explained. "Someone must have turned it in earlier this week." Emma's curiosity incited her to check the records in the lost and found, but the log contained no notation about the book. She had also gone through the trouble of viewing the security tapes in order to identify the person who returned it, but the snowstorms had caused recurrent power outages that left gaps in the footage.

Henry closed the book and wielded it like a shield. "You could have asked Ms. Blanchard to give it to me," he reasoned. "Why are you here?"

Stricken with anxiety, Emma stood up and rubbed the strain out of the muscles in her weary legs. "I need to tell you—"

"Tell him what, Ms. Swan?" Regina interrupted them, and from the tightlipped smile on her face, it was impossible to gauge how long she had been listening to the conversation. She draped her coat over her shoulders, looking more like a cutthroat politician than ever before.

Emma whipped around to glare at Regina, instantly riled by the twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "What do you have some type of radar that goes off whenever I'm within ten feet of Henry?"

"No," the mayor told her. "He forgot his lunch." Regina handed a paper bag to her son and sneered at the book as he struggled to carry it back to classroom. He knew how to interpret his mother's unspoken signals and assumed he would be grounded if he lingered in her presence for too long.

Henry fidgeted nearby the door, and glanced back at Emma, in case she planned to intervene. "Oh, good," she snapped at The Evil Queen. "Now that you've given it to him, you can _leave_." The boy hid his smirk behind the book, inhaling the scent of the old leather.

Emma's confrontational behavior would only aggravate Regina, but her patience had diminished. If the mayor intended to file a restraining order against her, she might never be granted a second opportunity to share her feelings with Henry.

Furious, Regina gripped Emma's wrist and embedded her nails deep in the woman's palm. "You—" she growled.

"_No_," Emma told her. She twisted her hand away, and pointed her finger in warning, tempted to swipe at Regina's face while she was at it. "_You_—you play dirty while I play fair, but you have nothing to hold over me anymore."

"Oh, I'll find something," Regina countered. As her plump lips puckered into smile, she knocked Emma's finger away and crossed her arms in confidence. "Just wait until I have access to your files, dear."

In an effort to ignore the mayor, Emma wandered over to Henry. She took the book from him because his lunch bag looked like it was getting squashed. When he rewarded her with a smile, she grabbed his hand, and led him towards the library.

"Where are you going?" the mayor barked. She planted her feet and refused to suffer the indignity of trailing helplessly after them.

"To talk to _my_ son," Emma shouted.

When they were seated at a workspace in the nonfiction section, Emma pushed her hair behind her ears and then slid her arm over the tabletop. She touched his thumb and with some trepidation, clasped her hand over his fist. "I—_love_—you, Henry."

"I _know_," he shrugged. "That's why when those files came in the mail, I threw them in the trash." He shook his head because his bangs had fallen in front of his eyes.

"You—what?" she asked. The librarian shushed her, but Emma was smiling through tears, too focused on Henry to take heed of anyone else.

"Don't worry," he told her. "I didn't _read_ any of them." Henry rocked his chair nearer to hers, and huffed loudly as he became preoccupied by ponderous thoughts. "You won't lie to me _again_, right?"

Emma mentally excluded her most recent violation of his trust from the terms of the agreement. "_Right_," she swore on it.

* * *

><p>As he peered out through the stained glass window of his Victorian residence, Mr. Gold's face looked horizontally split: his crooked nose and dark eyes were cast in a shade of violent red, while his mouth was tinted in tranquil blue. Grizzly whiskers had cropped up on his chin since last she saw him, and Emma noticed the wrinkles in his suit as he beckoned for her to come inside.<p>

"Ms. Swan," he acknowledged her. "To what do I owe this most unwelcome intrusion?" When he limped into the parlor, she bustled after him and frowned as she realized that all of the curtains in the room were stapled shut.

A flame crackled in the fireplace, and she hovered near it to warm her hands. She felt at ease because her gun nudged at her leg, strapped into a concealed holster. "_Unwelcome_?" Emma snorted. "You invited me to your party, but get annoyed when I show up here unannounced?"

Mr. Gold fumbled with a match to light his pipe, and let the tobacco burn for a moment before sucking in the smoke. "The gala is tomorrow," he reminded her.

Skipping any attempt at pleasantries, she persuaded herself that he might be more accommodating if he feared for his own safety. "I'm investigating an attack that took place right outside of your pawnshop," she told him. "I suggest you cooperate with me, because you could be the next victim—"

"Oh, I sincerely doubt _that_," he mused. Once he lowered his pipe, Mr. Gold sidled up beside Emma, and treated her like a fine collectible. He stroked her porcelain cheek, inspected her bottom lip, and lifted her jaw as though he expected to find a label of authentication stamped into her neck. As she went for her gun, he crushed her arm with brute strength and forced her into the fireplace.

"What the hell are you doing?" she shrieked. The blaze licked at the back of her thighs, and without waiting for him to answer, she squeezed the knuckles in her dominant hand, and cracked them hard over his face.

Mr. Gold recoiled from the punch, spat blood into her gaping mouth, and then propelled her sideways into a table. A tinkling noise alerted him to his mistake, and he watched as a china cup crashed into fragments on the floor. The white and blue pieces stabbed him as he turned them into weapons and hurled them at her. "I knew it would come to this!" he bellowed.

His brain was infested with too many memories, and his ears buzzed as he heard a succession of screams. _Shut the hell up, _he roared. He could not be sure whom he addressed, though he ascertained that he must have been talking to himself, Belle, or—

_Emma. _

The prison bars left slivers of steel in his hands as he clutched them and howled at Snow White. _HEY, we made a deal. I want her name! We had a deal! I NEED her name._

Mr. Gold glanced down at his trembling fingers and marveled at the shards that jutted up from his skin. Not steel, after all. _The chipped cup_—

He ripped the splinter of the teacup from his thumb and then circled around to look at Emma, but he saw someone else lying there on the floor. Maddened, he incoherently pleaded with an apparition, raving about a prophecy and his irredeemable life. "Son, Bae—please! Tell me what you want," he begged. "I will do whatever you ask."

When the ghost vanished, he encroached upon Emma with renewed ferocity. In his fit of lunacy, he pummeled her with his cane, extracting a sick pleasure from how she flinched for him. "Oh yes, darling. Does that feel good? Do you like that?" he yelled at her.

"You crazy bastard," she hollered, and lunged for his ankle. Mr. Gold anticipated her move and stomped on her vulnerable stomach, kicking her towards the divan. Emma tried to crawl under the furniture, but he dragged her by the hair and slammed her skull into the wall. He grappled for her gun and unloaded the magazine, pocketing the bullets.

He invoked an ancient rite by chanting her name, and she soon sprawled submissively at his feet. Bending her over, he took a trophy of his conquest, tugging the pendant from around her throat. "_Oh_, _Emma_—" he intoned. "My beautiful, sweet Emma."

He rolled her onto her belly and kissed along the nape of her neck, counting her curls as though they were coins. She whimpered as he dexterously undressed her, stripping her down to the floss of her panties. Depriving her of that last protection, he diddled the stiff little nub inside of her slit, and locked his legs around her calves lest she rock away from him. "Mmm, yes," he sighed. "_Cry for me, love. Tears are prettier than diamonds."_

Emma sobbed in distress, but he lapped up the teardrops and bit her naked shoulder to egg her on. She cowered while he degraded her with his hands, but as he shoved her face into the carpet and plunged his cock into the wet socket between her thighs, she craved reassurance from him. The little girl peeked out from within her, and clung to him with unsurpassable need.

"Mm, _that's_ a good baby," he praised her. "Come sit on my lap." Herding her with his cane, he positioned their bodies into alignment and then reamed her. He gagged her cries with his own mouth and coaxed her up and down on his shaft. As Emma felt the rush of an orgasm, she attached herself to him and scraped her cheek on his masculine stubble. She wailed despondently in the aftermath of the sensation, but he smothered her with her own shirt until he felt the surge of his own climax. With a jerk, he emptied viscous fluids into her, and patted her back.

At length, Mr. Gold wiped at her smudged mascara and escorted her to the sofa. Though sentient, Emma had no control over her muscles. She flopped around like a fish out of water as he fed her two pills for the pain and bundled up her clothes.

He mixed her a drink, and after she drained the glass of the tonic, he scrubbed fretfully at his muzzle. "Lay down, dolly," he prodded her. "There is a matter that we still need to discuss."

In her haze, Emma concluded that she was dreaming. As he whispered commands into her ear, she became certain of it. She drifted out of consciousness before he could fully inculcate his plot into her mind, but snippets of his speech became ingrained in her psyche.

He wanted the storybook, a satchel and a ring_—_

_But most of all he wanted her._

In the hours that passed, Mr. Gold paced around the parlor, tidying up their mess. He dressed her like a paper doll, manipulating her arms into the sleeves of her shirt and jacket. Toying with her sheriff's badge, he clipped it onto her belt before shimmying her pants into place.

While Emma slumbered, he wrote sonnets along her spine, and then scrawled words over her vertebrae, using his finger as the pen.

_Love. __Darling. __Sweetheart._

_My sweetheart._

_Whore. Bitch._

_Filthy-little-BRAT_.

She woke in a cold sweat, startled by her unfamiliar surroundings. In an armchair across from her, Mr. Gold snored while he slept. Unable to recall if she had questioned him, she jostled his arm until he looked at her. "What happened?" she asked.

"I am afraid you passed out, Ms. Swan," he informed her, straightening up to examine her in the darkness. "You took quite a bad fall."

Her super power tested the validity of his statement, but his wording was foolproof.

Emma hugged her jacket tighter around her body and glanced around, but the home betrayed no clue of the owner's cruel proclivities. The grandfather clock chimed to indicate the time and she barreled for the door, alarmed by her thoughts. "I, uhm—" she called out. "It's—I have to—" _Go._

* * *

><p>With a roguish grin, August approached the reservation desk at <em>La Casa Del Mar. <em>"A booth for _A. Booth_," he proclaimed.

The waiter adjusted his coattails and read down a list to find the name. From behind thick-rimmed spectacles, he glowered at August as he conducted the couple over to a booth in the corner.

Emma appreciated August's sense of humor, but only demonstrated it by smiling weakly at him after they both took their seats.

In the fifteen minutes she had spent preparing for their date, she bathed herself, fixed her runny make-up and changed into her slinky black dress.

August whistled as she unzipped her jacket, and put down his menu. "I bet Sister Mary Margaret would make you say ten _Hail Marys_ if she saw you in that," he teased.

"And what will you do?" she quirked a brow, setting a breadstick on her plate.

"_Me_? I'm a sinner," he grinned, taking a large bite from his buttery slice of bread.

Even though he wore a blazer, his bandana was still secured around his neck. August plied his fingers over the fabric as he ordered a steak. "Medium rare," he told the waiter.

Emma's stomach felt queasy, so she opted for soup and the bland, seasoned tilapia. Her nightmares warped her waking thoughts and sent her into frequent spells of panic, but she suppressed her feelings to maintain some semblance of normalcy. The ambience in the restaurant eventually soothed her nerves, and when the waiter delivered their food, she smiled into the steam that wafted up from the broth in her dish.

August tucked his napkin into his collar and snatched up his utensils. "Are you okay?" he asked her.

"Yeah," she confirmed, soaking a cracker in her soup. "Just—" Emma blanked out before she could complete the sentence. Her spoon slipped away from her, and hot liquid splattered into her face.

"Maybe you need a drink," he smirked. When the waiter waltzed over with a Shirley Temple, he pretended to be surprised. "Ginger ale and sugary syrup. Looks like my plan to get you drunk has been foiled."

Emma plucked the maraschino cherry out of the glass and gave it to him, glad for once that he was an obnoxiously perceptive man. "There's always next time," she promised.

August laughed and held the cherry up by the stem in order to appraise it. "Does this mean that I've won you over?" he asked. In a bold play, he dangled the fruit above her lips, rapt with attention as her eyelashes fluttered and she sank her teeth into it.

"No," she asserted. "This means that I'm a fan of Shirley Temples."

"Thought you might be," he jeered. "You do live with one, after all."

August sliced up his steak and chewed a piece, swallowing it before he continued to mock her roommate. "Tell me, how is her rendition of _The Good Ship Lollipop_?"

Suddenly defensive, Emma pushed her plate aside and glared at him. "What do you have against Mary Margaret?"

"Nothing at all," August told her. "—She looks out for you—behaves like your mother—" He spoke whenever his mouth was not full. After sprinkling extra salt onto his mashed potatoes, he ate them with gusto.

Neglecting her soup, she sipped at her soda and observed him solemnly. "She's my friend," she insisted. "My _only_ friend. And I—"

Disrupted by a flash of déjà vu, Emma blinked and muttered a soft 'nevermind_.' _She nibbled her tilapia until he finished his meal, though her stomach churned with acid.

When the waiter took their dishes into the kitchen, they stared at each other in silence, loath to leave without letting the food settle in their stomachs.

They bantered back and forth, delaying their departure for as long as possible without it becoming blatant that neither one of them wanted to end the date.

An hour later, August smiled as he helped Emma into her jacket and zippered her up. He politely accompanied her out to the patrol vehicle and opened the door on the driver's side for her. "I've seen the car, the badge and the gun, but how do I get you to show me the handcuffs?" he joked.

"Get yourself arrested," Emma advised him, but the moment that his lips smacked hungrily against her own, she began to reconsider—

* * *

><p>The lobby was empty when they arrived at the inn and ran up the stairs to his bedroom. The space smelled of his cologne, old newspapers and ink.<p>

Once August divested her of the black dress and exposed her creamy skin, he spread her onto the bed and tweaked her nipples with his teeth. She felt a burst of fright as his cock impaled her, penetrating deep into the sensitive, pink hole of her sex. "So—tense," he grunted. "Relax for me."

As his manhood widened her tiny passage to receive its ample dimensions, she quivered under him. "I'll be gentle," he reassured her. Eyeing her injuries, he gingerly shifted the pillows to maximize her comfort.

Their bodies melded, but their rhythms clashed at first. Neither of them could concentrate, so they transferred onto the chaise. Emma straddled him and he kept her balanced by seizing her breasts. Her tongue invaded his mouth and he devoured her moans.

"You—are—gorgeous," he panted.

He smoothed her wild blonde hair and then burrowed his hand between their bodies to pet her. His thumb located her clit and he fondled it until she climaxed for him. When he subsequently released inside of her, he painted her chest with the polish of kisses and held her in a close hug. "Stay with me tonight," he requested.

"_No_," she quietly declined. "I—need—to go home." She looked like a mannequin who had escaped the store window—plastic and hollow.

* * *

><p>The yolk of the sun dripped onto the fluffy white clouds. In the heat of the summer day, dragonflies darted nimbly over the surface of the duck pond. With his feet submerged in the water, the little boy stood whittling at a piece of wood and listening to the twitter of insects. As he carved a firebird into the pliant cedar with his dull instrument, a swan alighted on the far bank, and he glanced up the hill to look for his father.<p>

"Look!" he exclaimed. "A swan!" Awed by the creature, the boy put down his tool and crept through the foliage.

"Bae! Don't you wander now, son—" Rumpelstiltskin entreated him to stay on the shore, but as the child swam towards the bird, he dashed after him.

"I dreamt of this swan!" he declared. "It will turn into a woman. Just as beautiful as mother, with hair the color of spun gold!" Enthused, he sang out to the bird to entice it to transform.

Rumpelstiltskin reeled the boy back by the gruff of his shirt and enclosed his arms around him. "You _coo-duv_ _drown_, Bae." His accent was thick with dread, but he mussed his son's hair and good-naturedly admired his woodcarving. "What is that you have here, eh?"

Unfazed by the incident, the boy presented his father with the small gift. "It's—me," he insisted.

Rumpelstiltskin gazed at the object, recognizing the symbol from his own prophetic visions. "Did you see this, son? In your dream, did you see this?"

"Yes," the child nodded. "I was the bird, father! I flew through the heavens and set them on fire. The treetops lit like tinder, and the world became ash—"

Baelfire sought the swan with his eyes, but she had flown away. "The swan—" he frowned.

Absorbed with his disquieting thoughts, Rumpelstiltskin shooed the boy away. "It's time ye' be heading on home to your mother. I'll be along soon," he told him.

Once alone, Rumpelstiltskin took the path up to the fields. The wheat flailed in the breeze when he fell upon his knees to meditate. As he uttered the incantations taught to him by his mentor, he prematurely lamented his losses. To know the unalterable nature of his own future meant living with despair as his constant companion. No earthly power could prevent him from suffering. "If only there was such a power," he keened.

Throughout his lifetime, arrogant soldiers taunted Rumpelstilskin for his cowardice, but in the face of those men, he could only hear the echo of Heinrich's voice in his head. He heard those words again as he rested his face in the dirt, ruminating over the lessons he had yet to teach his son.

_Lead a humble life._ _No power yet exists that can save you from torment._ _Fate crushes the brave-_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>:Mr. Gold's actions are detestable. I **do not** condone violence of that nature. Let that be known.

I debated about writing the Gold/Emma scene, and then went through with it because I think sexual violence is glossed over in movies, television, and literature. For the most part, people want to pretend it doesn't exist. I don't want to be one of those people anymore.

On another note entirely, I think it's meaningful that Emma's last name is _Swan_—I am making a vague reference to the lore of "The Stolen Veil" (or Swan Lake, as it is better known) at the end of this chapter. I'm sure everyone is familiar with the tale, considering the success of the film _Black Swan_.

I also reference "O Fortuna," a poem that is part of the collection called the _Carmina Burana_. The poem has actually been referenced twice in my story. I challenge you to find the two references, if you're bored...

**KJohnson17**: Glad you like August. He shall continue to mystify everyone, I hope. I also hope you appreciate his jokes in this chapter, since I kind of struggled with the dialogue during the Emma/August date scene.  
>And yes, things will definitely get better between MMDavid. You'll see more developments on that in the next chapter, assuming you haven't completely abandoned the story.

**Paladin of Farore**: Thank you! I very much appreciate your review. :)

**Lonewolf3676**: Yes, that image was designed to gross everyone out.

Happy you found David's scenes convincing, because as you well know, I was worried about them.

August IS odd, but that is half the fun of writing his scenes. Thank you again for putting up with my random rambling about the fic!


	11. White

**WARNINGS:** Sexual violence of a nonconsensual nature; violence.

* * *

><p>Sunshine filtered through the diaphanous curtains of the apartment, diffusing in pale patterns across the expanse of the floor. Awakened by the sound of jangling keys, Mary Margaret extracted her face from the plate of sugar cookies that had become an impromptu substitute for her pillow. Pink-and-purple frosting stuck to her cheeks like war paint, forming two lines below either of her bloodshot eyes.<p>

Before the blonde could make a beeline up the stairs, Mary Margaret popped up from her place at the kitchen table, and impulsively ran after her. All she could remember was waiting anxiously for Emma to come home. Her weariness and worry translated rapidly into anger, and her overstrung emotions amplified her inability to think clearly about the situation. "How could you be so inconsiderate?" she snapped. "I understand that sharing an apartment with someone is still new to you, but please have the decency to let me know when you plan to stay out all night!"

Emma's back tensed but she was too scatterbrained to respond. Her body ached in an unprecedented way, and her pubic bone throbbed palpably as she lowered herself to sit on the steps. She whined like a miserable puppy and hid her face against her knees.

The inhuman noise frightened Mary Margaret, but she sank down next to Emma and pulled her into a loose hug. She could not account for her feelings of extreme anxiety, but her intuition planted irrational fears and assumptions into her sleep-deprived mind. "Emma," she cried. "What is it? Tell me—"

Mutely, Emma traced the outline of Mary Margaret's face with her fingertip, drawing a triangle over her nose and a circle around her chin. A string of saliva stuck to her teeth as she opened her mouth and gurgled babyishly. The dark concaves under her eyes confessed to her exhaustion before she managed to do it herself. "_So_—tired," she muttered.

Mary Margaret withheld further questions until after she ushered Emma upstairs to bed. When they were both cocooned beneath the blankets, she snuggled into her and caressed her soft golden hair. "Did you stay with August last night?" she asked.

Emma's lip curled up like a bruised little apple peel and she buried her nose into Mary Margaret's neck. She needed to breathe in the scent of the familiar vanilla soap, because her perceptions were distorted and she could have sworn she smelled Mr. Gold's pungent aftershave on her skin. "No," she stuttered. "I went to the station—"

Sidetracked by an elusive thought, Emma allowed her voice to taper off. In a daze, she wiped a patch of frosting from Mary Margaret's face, leaving behind her smudgy prints.

With a ripple of confusion forming between her eyebrows, Mary Margaret scrubbed at her cheeks until her hands became dyed with the Easter egg colors she regularly used to decorate cookies. "I baked your favorite," she explained.

"Thanks," Emma whispered. "I'm sorry about last night." Half conscious and unhinged, she vacillated between moments of perfect clarity and maddening mental obscurity. Her mind censored her attempts to blame anyone other than herself for her irresponsible actions. "I should have—called." She concentrated on inhaling and exhaling, feeling suddenly lightheaded.

Mary Margaret wanted to believe that Emma's apology was sincere. Without much reflection, she attributed her roommate's erratic behavior to natural causes. Lack of rest and frazzled emotions could render anyone unstable, especially after a chaotic week. "I overreacted," she assured her. "When you didn't come home, I just assumed —"

Hit by a debilitating rush of vertigo, Emma coiled around Mary Margaret and clamped her eyes shut. "_Home,_" she asserted. "I should have—come—home." She blinked to forestall sleep, but her memories suffocated her like a chloroform soaked rag.

* * *

><p>As Mr. Gold took the satchel of ink from Emma, he noticed the lusty glaze in her eyes. She defiantly turned to go, but he harnessed her by grabbing a fistful of her provocative dress. With his cane, he prodded her onward through the foyer, up the winding stairwell, and into the bathroom that connected to his master suite. Positioning her in front of the three-paneled looking glass, he disrobed her and let her drink in the sight of her own nudity. While he prepared the bath, she stared at her abused body and felt like she was gazing into a funhouse mirror.<p>

Without regard for her stitches, Mr. Gold steered her to the tub and submerged her in hot water. Up to her neck in bubbles, Emma recalled a time when she was too small to wash herself without adult supervision. Disoriented and ashamed of her predicament, she struggled to understand his lecture. He had been speaking since her arrival, but only a single strand of words affected her:

"—You would spread your legs for just about any man, especially one who acts like a surrogate father to you. Isn't that right, lamb? From now on, mind that you stay away from Mr. Booth. We've got what we need from him."

Emma succeeded in hoisting herself out of the bath, but she glided on the sudsy tile and tripped. Sprawled on a luxuriously plush bathmat, she watched with hooded eyes as Mr. Gold cleaned the filth away from the sore cavity between her legs. "Such a brainsick little darling," he remarked. "This is what _you_ need, isn't it?" He teased the textured sponge over her center, groaning as she parted her thighs and opened herself to him.

She obligingly rolled her hips as he penetrated her with his thick middle finger and massaged her smooth inner muscles. "You want sexual attention," he mused. "Oh, yes. You crave it."

Mr. Gold released his stiff cock from his pants and slid it into her raw sex. As he began to test the durability of that damaged, super tight seam, he restrained her arms above her head and sucked on her bubblegum lips. "Mm – that's it, love – _yes_. You feel _so_ nice," he grunted. "One would never know that you had a baby."

Feeling his motions deep within her belly, she groaned and convulsed under him. He ground the head of his prick against her cervix until he elicited a pained, throaty cry from her. "Should I give you another baby, Emma?" he asked.

Reducing her to tears with his final, furious thrusts, he jerked violently and pumped her full with his molten seed. Afterwards, he leaned over the sink to shave, while she gazed straight up at the lights and let them raze her vision. She did not want to look at him as she crawled on her knees to retrieve her dress. Before she could reach for it, he draped the garment casually over his shoulder, gripped her wrist and gestured for her to go into the bedroom. Once he was entwined with her on the mattress, he shaped his hands over the contours of her backside and pampered her with kisses.

* * *

><p>Roused from her nap by the scent of food, Emma padded downstairs and groggily perched on the stool at the end of the breakfast counter. Her raggedy hair stuck up at odd angles, but no matter how she flattened it, her curls resisted restriction. Exasperated and pouty, she glanced at Mary Margaret and patiently observed while she cooked.<p>

Mary Margaret acknowledged Emma with a solemn smile, though her heart felt compressed every time she looked in her direction. She daintily arranged a braised piece of chicken on a plate, topped it with a sprig of basil, and set the dish next to Emma's elbow. "You were—crying in your sleep," she gently told her.

Emma busied her mouth by chewing and drinking sips of juice. When she experienced a stabbing pain in her side, her appetite faltered and she set her fork down. "I uhm – I feel—pretty confused," she finally admitted. "I keep having awful nightmares. It must be an aftereffect of the black market drug that Dr. Whale found in my system. All the more reason why I need to focus on the investigation."

The telephone rang and Mary Margaret fumbled to answer it. With the receiver propped against her ear, she wrapped the leftovers from Emma's lunch in tinfoil and stored them away in the refrigerator. "Oh, hi Mr. Booth," she burbled.

Mary Margaret smiled into the phone, but her cheerful expression dimmed when Emma signaled that she would prefer not to take the call. "Yes," she told August. "I mean no. She's—uh—" As she tried to fabricate a convincing lie, she flailed around and cringed. Her eyes darted around the kitchen in search of a prop to inspire her storytelling. She picked up a spatula and waved it like a magic wand. "She's—coloring!"

Emma glared at the drawings that were affixed to the icebox with plastic butterfly magnets. Resignedly, she removed the phone from Mary Margaret's incapable clutches and went over to sit at the table. "Sorry about that," she apologized to August. "I—I can't see you tonight. I promise I'll call you tomorrow."

Rather than eavesdrop, Mary Margaret scuttled into her bedroom and gathered up the garments she selected for Mr. Gold's gala. When she returned, she goaded the blonde into getting ready. After hours of comprehensive preening, they reconvened in the foyer and Mary Margaret laced up the back of Emma's bodice. She examined a black-and-blue mark on her ribcage, but ascribed it to the attack that took place earlier in the week rather than a more recent injury. In long gloves and a gown of winter white, Emma looked breathtakingly like a swan—she was both sensual and pure. Next to her, in a dress of the same spotless monochrome, Mary Margaret floated with the grace of a dove.

The stars winked happily at them when they left the apartment and departed for the Lakeside ballroom.

* * *

><p>At seven o'clock, the venue bustled with eager guests and toadying butlers. In their masquerade disguises, men and women traipsed through the corridors, laughing and swaying in pairs. Emma scoped out a secluded alcove on the far side of the dance floor and led Mary Margaret around the perimeter of the room. They appeared to be the only ones who were not conspicuously thrilled by the prospect of prancing around like fanatical prom queens.<p>

Ruby was identifiable not only because she wore her signature color, but also because men followed her wherever she went. In a trim red dress and garish lipstick, she smirked coyly behind her sequined mask and ducked away from the oaf who trailed after her. With some speed in her swagger, she approached Emma and Mary Margaret. "Hey," she greeted them. "This party sucks."

Mary Margaret adjusted her feathery mask and marveled at Ruby's ability to pick them out in a crowd. "You can hide over here with us," she reassured her.

Emma fussed with the bindings on her gown and scraped the tiny rhinestones off of the fabric. "Yeah," she agreed. "You can _both_ help me scratch."

With a disapproving frown, Mary Margaret swatted at Emma and then decided she would have to tie her hands if she expected the beadwork to remain intact for the entire night. Forbearing the urge to do it, she stared out into the sea of masked faces and briefly wondered if they would encounter David Nolan at some point during the course of the evening.

As if he had cleverly deduced that the town misfits were assembling in the corner, Archie shuffled over to the group and cleared his throat. His orange hair, quiet voice and sedate wardrobe made him instantly recognizable as the town psychiatrist. "Do you mind if I join you?" He posed the question timidly, and then fiddled with his mask so that he could fix his crooked spectacles.

Ruby latched onto Archie and looped his arm over her shoulder. "Not if you pretend that you came with me," she told him. "Dr. Whale keeps trying to get me to dance. He thinks it will give him an excuse to cop a feel."

Stunned by her forwardness, Archie simply nodded and blushed. After he drank a few cocktails, he suggested that they all go for a stroll and look out at the lights that were hung up over the lake.

As the group hovered in front of the glass paned window and gazed at the twinkling bulbs that illuminated the surface of the frozen water, Regina exited an adjoining room and collided with Ruby.

The mayor plucked at the dark peacock plumage on her mask and pushed it up on her face. "You should all watch where you're standing," she hissed.

Ruby stumbled into Mary Margaret and smiled unabashedly at Regina. "Sorry," she shrugged.

Regina burned each of them with her eyes, and the scar above her lip became more visible as she gritted her teeth together. She glanced down at Emma's gown, scrutinizing the yards of ivory material and the delicate gems that were stitched under the bust. "Aren't there rules of fashion that forbid harlots from wearing white?" she jeered.

"I guess that's why you never wear it," Emma rejoined. "I always thought you were going for coordination. Black matches so well with your heart."

With a grin that somehow conveyed her contempt, Regina chose to change the subject. "Henry sends his regards," she announced. "You know, it seems he does take after you, Ms. Swan. He committed his first felony the other day by tampering with my mail."

Emma's jaw hardened and her mouth cinched inward like a bow tie. As Regina snickered at her, she lost the shine of her resiliency and suffered a lapse of focus.

When she regained control of her senses, she realized that everyone was gaping at her in silence.

Satisfied by the distress she had caused Ms. Swan, Regina disembarked to chat with the rest of the tax-paying citizens. She brushed Mary Margaret and Ruby aside, holding her head high as she saw them hurry to support Emma, apparently concerned that the blonde might faint.

Riled, Emma wrenched herself away and backpedaled before Mary Margaret could reach for her again. "I'm fine," she insisted. "I'm going to find Mr. Gold. You stay here."

Without loitering long enough for Mary Margaret to protest, Emma ventured into the throng of patrons who were milling around a showcase of the pawnbroker's wares. She paused to admire an antique veil, then swerved around a bickering couple and vanished from view.

After Emma disappeared, Mary Margaret attempted to subdue the fresh panic that proliferated in her chest. Even after she gulped down a glass of red wine, her paranoia would not dissipate. She bobbed like a buoy between Ruby and Archie, craning her neck as she scanned the partygoers.

Dr. Whale strutted towards the posse and grinned pompously at Mary Margaret. "I've been looking everywhere for you," he told her. "You look — elegant."

Unable to recall which adjective he had prescribed in his earlier effort to flatter Ruby, Dr. Whale squinted over at the taller brunette to process her reaction to the compliment. Ruby dismissed him with a flick of her eyelashes and dragged Archie off to help her find Granny.

Mary Margaret sidestepped Dr. Whale's advances, but he braced an arm on the wall behind her. Dauntless, she dodged the trap and gawked up at the gaps in his harlequin mask. "You look – like a clown," she breathed.

With a nonchalant chuckle, Dr. Whale snatched two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to Mary Margaret. "It was either this or a gorilla suit," he mused. "Everyone must have gone to the costume store earlier in the week."

To politely indulge him, she sampled the champagne and poked at the strawberry that clung to the crystal rim of the glass. "I made our masks," she bragged. "One for myself and one for Emma, of course."

Mary Margaret let her eyes rove freely around the ballroom until they came to an abrupt halt on a distinctive figure that stood among the procession of guests.

In a faceguard that bore resemblance to the helm of a gladiator, David Nolan cut through the flock of dancers and interposed himself between the doctor and Mary Margaret. "Can we talk?" he asked. Emboldened by how she was looking at him, he tugged her away from Dr. Whale like a little boy reclaiming his favorite toy. "The clinic called yesterday afternoon. They made a mistake. Kathryn is _not_ pregnant."

Mary Margaret stared reproachfully because she was shocked speechless by his insolence. As soon as her vocal chords loosened, she spoke in a tone of constrained sorrow and suppressed frustration. "Did you—tell her how you feel about me?" she asked. "Have you moved out yet? What _have_ you done, David?"

He glanced at their silhouettes on the floor and saw that their shadows merged in spite of the void between them. "I told her," he replied. "I came here tonight to meet with Mr. Gold. He, uhm – has an apartment available. It actually used to belong to Sheriff Graham. I can move in after the place is fumigated. Until then, I'm staying at the inn."

Hope flourished in Mary Margaret's heart, but she merely nodded and took a single step closer to him.

* * *

><p>Mr. Gold hiked up her skirt and rooted his hands into her panties. He rocked Emma forward onto the table in the private banquet hall, intending to glut himself on her without interruption. While she kicked her feet and bucked in desperation, he appreciated the fine details on her dress. "What a charming gown," he observed. "You look just like a virgin in it."<p>

Emma thrashed away from him, tumbled to the floor and crouched below a row of seats. As he scrambled to pry her from underneath the enclosure, she dug her nails into the carpet. Like a ringmaster provoking a lioness, he flipped a chair and aimed it at her face. She ripped out one of the weak wooden legs and swung it at him, but he snagged her by the hem of her gown and twisted her into an arched contortion.

With his tonic already flowing through her veins, she became docile and drowsy in the snare of his arms. She nestled into him and laid her dizzy head down on his shoulder. As he forcefully shucked her out of her snow white dress, she played passively with his tie and listened to the metronomic thumping of his heart.

He pulsed with excitement when he saw that her lingerie matched the rest of her ensemble. Twining his fingers into the thatch of her blonde curls, he seized her neck and re-directed her gaze, coercing her to watch while his hand wandered over her body. She looked dazedly at the peridot ring on his pinkie finger, unable to compute that she had been the one who gave it to him. "Muh-mmm," she cried. "Mary—Mary Margaret."

Frantically, Emma repeated the name over and over again. She sounded like a baby speaking her first words.

Deaf to her childish prattling, he feasted on her fair skin and tore off her panties. He unclasped her bra and rested his hand on the plane of her belly, hooking his thumb into her navel. As she persisted with her chant, he became agitated and muffled her whines with a kiss. She wriggled and lurched out of his lap, but he shoved her down and embraced her from behind. "I want you to beg me to take what little remains of your dignity," he puffed into her ear.

With the master key to the premises in her shaky grasp, Regina stood in suspension and flinched as she spotted them together on the floor. In three long strides, she honed in on Ms. Swan, and bent at the waist to glare directly into Mr. Gold's dull eyes. "What the hell is this?" she snarled at him.

Emma reached for Regina's high heel and inched forward, using her elbows to propel her weight. She registered a rare glimmer of compassion in her enemy's somber features.

Mr. Gold sniggered at Regina and crushed Emma between the vice of his legs. "I _think_," he emphasized. "—that you of all people would know."

The mayor laughed mirthlessly at him until he inspected his cuticles and showed off his new ring. "I suggest you go back to the party," he told her. "I'll come by your office on Monday morning. As you might have guessed, we have plenty to discuss."

Regina initially balked at his proposal, but she feigned indifference and withdrew from the banquet hall. As she lingered near the exit, she cast a guarded glance at Emma and quenched her feelings of pity and horror by channeling them into unbridled animosity. "You must like this," she spat.

Doubting her own words, the mayor dashed out into the corridor and along the passageway that would bring her back into the swarm of high-spirited party guests.

* * *

><p>In a puddle of their combined bodily fluids, Emma grunted and gasped as he bottomed out in her bare sex. He stretched her narrow canal with his cock until she moaned shamefully for him. All she could recount during her lucid moments was that she had stolen a precious jewel from someone who cared about her. She tilted forward on her knees and submersed herself in the repercussive punishment.<p>

Emma felt herself hemorrhaging internally, but Mr. Gold sopped up the mess and coddled her while she dozed. He did nothing at all to stopper her emotional bleeds. In that way, he left her polluted and eviscerated.

She returned to the ballroom at midnight and sought out Mary Margaret. Her expression betrayed her agony, and her dress no longer looked pristine. In her perpetual state of forgetfulness, she knew only that she was scared and that she might have done something wrong. She clung to Mary Margaret and slurred an apology, unaware of how David's eyes boggled at the sight of her.

Mary Margaret encircled Emma in her arms and steadied her. "Are you drunk?" she asked. Even after Emma incoherently denied it, she glanced at David to gauge his thoughts on the matter.

David took off his suit jacket and covered Emma's shoulders. With a firm hand, he guided the women through the mob on the dance floor and out into the parking lot. "Let me take you home," he suggested. "I'll bring you back in the morning to get her car."

As much as she wanted to rely on him, Mary Margaret wavered indecisively before packing Emma into his pick-up truck. The blonde slept on top of her for the duration of the long ride, but jolted awake when David braked in front of their apartment.

When they were all huddled at the kitchen table, Mary Margaret served them cookies and cups of warm cocoa. Emma became teary-eyed as she nibbled at the confections, mindless of her friends and the looks on their faces.

* * *

><p>The full moon looked like the watchman of an unforgiving god. On the fields of battle, wounded soldiers prayed to the sky until they lost feeling in their lips and died. Young men groped through the grass in search of their flasks and eagerly drank down their last drops of pleasure.<p>

Rumpelstiltskin crept through the weeds and bypassed a swamp. He found the trail and journeyed onward to count the casualties. No one among his regiment survived the attack, but he spied another squadron of men hunkered down around a fire in the distance. The aroma of roasted meat attracted him to the camp, but on his quest across the rugged path, he glimpsed an injured maiden lying in the dirt. There was a ransacked carriage nearby, and he saw Prince Leopold's royal crest emblazoned on a shredded white banner. He knelt beside the woman and offered his hand.

In her tattered blouse and skirt, the maiden had the appearance of a peasant. When she took Rumpelstiltskin's hand, she stirred up from the ground like a dust storm. "My daughter!" she cried. "My child! My poor girl!"

Rumpelstiltskin shrank away from her, though he was sure he had never met a lovelier creature. In spite of her ruined garb and sullied hair, she possessed qualities that marked her as a prize. "Missy," he begged. " Please—please let me help you."

The maiden paced around and raked up the gravel that paved the road. "I was separated from my daughter," she sobbed. "My sweet little Regina. She must surely be dead!"

He gazed towards the pillaged hamlet and then down at the dusty earth. "Aye," he regretfully agreed. "What is your name, love?"

"Rapunzel," she quietly answered him. "Tell me yours."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: My version of Mr. Gold is supremely screwed up. I'm not really sure how I went down this path, but I really did NOT expect the story to take such an incredibly violent turn. All I can say is that things will get better.

**Vanamo**: Yes. I've basically opened up a lot of plot holes in the Fairytale world. The last thing I want is for this story to be predictable. I have been making literary/FT references in every chapter and I have explained each one as the clues come together—but there is so much MORE going on that I have not yet explained.

Mr. Gold is definitely a madman. He originally liked Emma – and in his deranged mind, he might be convinced that he _loves_ her – but there is a reason why he feels he must exert control over her now. Originally he viewed her as his savior, but something has changed and he sees her as a potential threat. That's all I can say on this without giving too much away.

It will definitely be a huge, dramatic moment when MM finds out what has happened to Emma. I already know exactly how she is going to react, but if I told you, you'd have no reason to come back and read the chapter yourself.

August is definitely important in this story. I think once people find out more about him, then it will be understood why I have put such a focus on him in the last few chapters. Sure, he's great for some comic relief, but he serves a larger plot purpose.

I'd like to tell you that I have no idea who Emma will end up with, but that would probably be a lie. I **think** I know, but we'll see. There's a reason I didn't list this as a pairing fic, because she's going to be involved with multiple people. To state the obvious, Mr. Gold and August are two of those people. There might be more—

And, yup. Henry is a cool kid.

**Lonewolf3676**: Such compliments! Thank you!

Gold is absolutely demented in my fic. If he hadn't already crossed the line between human/beast, he has now. But, _yes_. As you know, I think it's important to explore character history/motivation. Obviously there is a reason he suddenly views Emma as a true threat. He was (blatantly) having a breakdown of his own when he harmed her. He's pretty damn dangerous, because even when he goes into his fits of insanity, he is still somehow calculating and able to act. Now that his crazy-ship has sailed, though—he's an awfully intimidating villain.

Yes, poor Emma. Healing will certainly be a process. MM/Snow & David/Charming are definitely going to have their work cut out for them. &Everyone will probably need a box of tissues when they read those chapter(s).  
>There is still quite a lot that needs to happen before we get there, though..<p>

& yes, I think the show really needs to take advantage of the fact that MM is quirky. She's so much fun to write!

**KJohnson17**: Gold's actions are contemptible. August is—well, you'll see. ;) So excited you will be sticking with the story for the long haul! There should be many more chapters to come. Thank you for reading!


	12. Safety

**WARNINGS:** Nonconsensual sex, violence.

* * *

><p>Nicholas Gagnon wedged a Q-tip up his nose and raced into his foster sister's room, where he pounced onto a lumpy beanbag chair and promptly began beeping like the intergalactic starship he was always trying to imitate. He must have thought that he looked quite convincing in his glow-in-the-dark cape and matching footie pajamas, but he seized Emma's penlight and took a flying leap onto her mattress for good measure. As he bounced up and down, he avoided the broken bedsprings and a heap of hazardous pillows. When he at last grew tired of jumping and screeching, he plopped down on his rear and rummaged around in her nightstand.<p>

Before Nicholas had time to unearth the curiosities she kept hidden in a small black box, Emma scrambled into the room and slammed the door behind her. Mr. Gagnon rammed at the barrier with the full force of his body weight and yelled out a string of curses. The wood frame splintered as Emma twisted the lock and backed away from it. She dropped to her knees in front of Nicholas and bent her head lower than she ever did in the pews at church. "Kid," she whispered hoarsely. "I have to leave."

With a tube of lipstick in one hand and a compact mirror in the other, Nicholas glanced sharply at her. He relinquished his grip on the beauty supplies and then clung to the older girl, throwing his arms around her neck. As he pressed himself up against Emma, he noticed that the gossamer fabric of her nightgown was damp and that her blonde curls were frizzed with perspiration. "Why are you wet?" he asked.

Her unconscious mind echoed the question, but the vivid dream persisted without intermission.

When the door popped off its hinges, she turned and watched as Mr. Gagnon shoved his wife into the nearby bureau. Mrs. Gagnon spiraled around, ripped at her wrinkly blouse and beat her fist against her husband's chest. The feuding couple screamed at each other until their faces melted like butterscotch ice cream cones on a summer afternoon. The surreal visual stymied Emma's attempts to speak or move. Transfixed by the sight of them, she merely sat and stared as they trespassed into her room and yanked her up from the floor.

As Nicholas shied away from his parents and ducked into the corner by a shelving unit, he reminded her of Henry. To spare her from what was inevitably coming, he thrust a book into Emma's waiting hands and the nightmare shifted. She recognized the romance novel only after she flipped to the love scene and discovered the receipt tucked into the binding. "Dad said to give this to you," Nicholas explained. "He knows you like to read."

When Emma finally glanced up at her surroundings, she stood on a beach dotted with umbrellas. She approached Mr. Gagnon at the water's edge and hurled his gift into the ocean. "I'm not interested in you," she hissed under her breath. "Stay away from me."

Mr. Gagnon laughed at Emma and dug around in the surf for a piece of smooth glass. "Guess you're not used to anyone being nice to you," he remarked. "I just figured you could use some summer reading material. I thought girls liked that sort of thing—"

Since she reacted by flinching and drawing her thin robe tighter around her bathing suit, he decided to experiment with a different tactic. "It's about love," he pointed out. "Don't you wonder what it's like to be in love?"

With an easy smile, Mr. Gagnon offered her the polished blue glass he uncovered from beneath the sand. "See this?" he asked her. "It's as soft as your skin."

Emma fumbled to take the object, confused that she was still somehow clutching the book. "This is wrong," she insisted. Her hair flapped around her in the breeze and she could taste the spray of sea salt on her lips.

The waves crashed over Mr. Gagnon's feet and he left a trail of rutted prints along the turf as he trudged away. He slumped down on a ratty towel and shaded his eyes while he listened to the gulls and slurped cold beer. "There's no such thing as right or wrong," he told her. "If there was any justice in this world, I wouldn't be out of work and you wouldn't be a walking meal ticket."

She whipped around to argue with him, but her thoughts unraveled like a flimsy paper chain and she ended up sounding young and foolish. "Don't be so cynical," she stammered. "You'll get a new job."

On the boardwalk in the distance, a Ferris wheel twirled in a blur of primary colors and Emma gazed longingly at the amusement park ride. Mr. Gagnon chewed on his filthy fingers while he looked her up and down. "Fifteen years old and so damn naïve," he spat. "Nothing is ever gonna bring you down or ruin your day, huh? Maybe that's what I like about you."

Emma angled herself away from him, feeling self conscious and small. "I don't like you very much," she admitted.

He smirked at her and plucked an apple from inside of the family picnic basket. While he cleaned the fruit on his shirt and sliced a piece for Emma, his eyes became fixated on her swimsuit and her newly developed curves.

As she tentatively reached out to touch him, he inflated and expanded like a pool toy. When the landscape underwent another alteration, he mutated into a different man and eased up from the couch where he was lying with her baby blanket draped over his muscular stomach. She raised her arms to protect her face and rooted herself to the floor, but she still felt unsafe.

Two rowdy children beckoned to Emma from the backyard, but as she hurried to open the sliding door, their father silently drew the blinds shut—

* * *

><p>When she lurched awake, Emma gagged on the briny flavor of her tears and launched herself out of her roommate's bed. Sweat and blood soaked through her flannel nightshirt, and she lost her equilibrium as she took a long stride towards the bathroom. She heard Mary Margaret and David muttering to each other in the kitchen and squinted over at the alarm clock to determine the hour.<p>

David drained his coffee mug and poked at the ceramic bluebird that perched on top of the yellow sugar bowl. In the light that streamed in through the frosted windowpanes, he appeared tired and demoralized. "I know we agreed to be friends for now," he told Mary Margaret. "But I don't mind helping you out."

Mary Margaret stirred her tea and then fixed the lapels on his dress shirt. Against her better judgment, she leaned in to kiss him on the mouth. Her eyelids drooped as his tongue responded to hers, and she sighed breathlessly as he rubbed at her thighs with the flat of his palms. She abruptly withdrew from David and circled around the countertop, effectively walling him off from her. "Can you sit with Emma for a little while?" she asked. "I need to go grocery shopping and run some other errands."

With his arms still outstretched, David refrained from protesting as Mary Margaret slipped by him. His posture stiffened and he scraped at the bristles that had sprung up rapidly on his chin over night. The prospect of spending the morning with Emma put him on edge, if only because he felt ill equipped to handle her mercurial moods on his own. "Sure," he hesitantly agreed.

Emma directed all of her anger and frustration inward as she realized that Mary Margaret and David were talking about her. She forced her legs into a run as she crossed the apartment and barricaded herself in the bathroom. After she wilted to the floor in front of the sink, she changed into a dirty t-shirt that she recovered from the hamper. With a wad of crumpled toilet paper, she swabbed up the red mess that stained her lower region and then slid into a pair of sweatpants.

If Emma was in full possession of her faculties, she might have stopped to consider how she incurred the injury, but her mind allied itself with Mr. Gold and prevented her from recalling the trauma.

Mary Margaret rushed after Emma and placed her hand on the door that separated them from each other. "Hey," she whispered softly to her. "I'm headed to the store. Do you need anything?"

As soon as Emma emerged from the bathroom, she set a murderous glare on Mary Margaret. Her emotions were volatile elixirs and she dabbled in dangerous alchemy by transmuting all of her pain into rage. For the first time in months, she felt tempted to break the nearest appliance or fragile vase. "No," she grumbled. "And I don't need a babysitter, either."

With her eyebrows raised in a subtle expression of doubt, Mary Margaret linked her arms in a knot over the front of her chest. "I just thought you might like the company." As she told the boldfaced lie, she prayed that Emma's superpower would glitch. "You've had a rough week," she reminded her.

Emma jaunted around the den and cemented her jaw into a fractious frown. She swiped at the tiny freckles on her nose, scratching savagely at a minor itch. "So have you," she countered.

Before Emma could focus her attention elsewhere, Mary Margaret pedaled after her and grabbed her hand. "I'm not denying it," she spoke calmly. "It's been particularly rough because I worry so much about you. I think you should consider talking to someone, Emma. Maybe Archie—"

Embarrassed and transparently upset, Emma wrested herself away from Mary Margaret. "You want me to see a shrink?" she asked. Her throat constricted and her voice struck an incredulous high note.

Instantly aware of her mistake, Mary Margaret stumbled backwards and grasped the table for support. David sauntered up behind her and clapped his hand over her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Whether Emma remembered it or not, they had both spent hours at her bedside, sacrificing sleep in a desperate effort to soothe her.

Mary Margaret regarded Emma with sympathetic, sorrowful eyes. "I don't know how to help you," she cried. "Everyone can see that you are suffering—"

Emma felt as out of control as she had been at eight years old. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks and scorched her face like synchronized geysers. She darted upstairs to her room and banged the door violently as she closed it behind her. As she searched for her little wool blanket, she knocked over a lamp and kicked at the sneakers and boots that cluttered up the space in front of her window. When she found the knitted keepsake, she flopped down on her mattress and willed herself not to think.

In shaky, scrawling penmanship, Mary Margaret wrote her shopping list. At the top, she printed "FRUIT LOOPS" in capitalized letters. Her face became shadowed with anxiety, but she resisted her impulse to chase after Emma. She allowed David to assist her in putting on her coat and then snatched up her handbag. "I have my cellphone," she told him. "Call me if you need me to come home."

Once she left, David ambled around the apartment and leafed through a magazine that outlined lesson plans and teaching tips. He browsed the bookshelf for a more riveting read, but it seemed as though most of the stories were about talking animals or dragons. "Who even reads this stuff?" he mumbled aloud to himself.

After he wasted fifteen minutes hovering awkwardly at the bottom of the stairwell, David tromped up the steps and tapped on the door to Emma's room. "I tried entertaining myself," he explained. "But unless I take up sewing, there's not much for me to do around here."

Emma rousted around in her bed and then resignedly shuffled over to the door. She checked her face in the mirror and restored her self-composure before she moved out into the hall. "Bribe me with a grilled cheese sandwich," she proposed. "And maybe I'll let you beat me at a board game of your choice. "

Together they descended the stairs and went into the kitchen, where Emma huddled on her usual stool while David assembled the ingredients for their lunch. "Guess you guys don't have satellite TV," he mused.

Emma trimmed the crusts from her sandwich and sank her teeth into the melted cheese. Occasionally she dipped a square of the bread into a dab of ketchup on the corner of her plate. "Basic channels only," she informed him. "I keep telling Mary Margaret that we need to get cable, but every time I bring it up, she suggests that I join her book club or her charity organization— "

David retrieved a deck of cards from a decorative dish that sat nearby a stack of their board games. "I can see that idea appeals to you," he hummed sarcastically. "Hey, don't worry. I'm on your side. I've met the women who are in charge of those organizations—"

When Emma finished the last bite of her sandwich and swept the crumbs from her lap, she relocated to the table and listened to David describe the rules to a game that she was convinced he had invented himself. "I said I would let you win," she complained. "That generally means you don't have to cheat."

With a chuckle, David fanned his cards out in front of him and glanced at her queen of hearts. "What makes you think that I'm cheating?" he laughed. "I'm telling you, this is a real game."

They disputed over the legitimacy of the game until Emma won three rounds and August interrupted them by rapping at the door.

David promptly greeted August with a look that conveyed his distrust. In the small town gossip circles, he knew that Emma was gaining a fast reputation for what nosey old women referred to as her "scandalous escapades" with "scrupulous characters." At the gala, David overheard two masked matrons promulgating rumors about the writer's involvement with the young blonde. He deduced that August was the primary "scrupulous character" in question.

While he assumed any interference on his part would likely be unwelcome, David loitered in the foyer and kept a vigilant eye on them. When August nodded at him, his lip twitched reflexively but his facial muscles refused to form a smile.

In his sleek leather jacket and wrangler jeans, August entered the apartment and presented Emma with a bouquet of purple orchids that he carried around like a smoking gun.

Emma smiled dimly and accepted the orchids, though her discomfort manifested itself in faint lines on her forehead. She balked at August's spontaneous and unexpected romantic gestures. His actions defied the predictable course usually taken by her one-night stands. "I thought flowers weren't your style," she commented.

David scrutinized the flowers as though they were weeds and then reluctantly granted Emma a modicum of privacy. He washed the dishes and glared at August while he scrubbed furiously at a frying pan. For a moment he contemplated calling Mary Margaret to report that Emma had a visitor, but he contained himself when he imagined how that conversation would unfold.

Attuned to the fact that he was under constant surveillance, August spoke in a hushed, rumbling voice. "Come read the Sunday paper in bed with me," he requested.

Clumsily, Emma arranged the bouquet on the table and gaped at August when he made his invitation. Her eyes widened and the slight indentation in her chin became more prominent as she brainstormed for a potentially realistic excuse. "Uhm," she droned. "I can't—"

August gained another perspective on Emma by tilting his head to the side. He opted to downplay her rejection with offbeat humor. "Let me guess," he remarked. "You have a new coloring book." As he borrowed Mary Margaret's euphemism and appropriated it for his own uses, he glanced meaningfully at an oval-shaped bruise on Emma's neck.

Emma briefly wondered what August meant, but the implication became clear when his eyes traveled over her throat and down the front of her body. Her skin flushed with the heat of humiliation and her naturally thick eyelashes absorbed a precipitous gush of tears.

August regretted his stupid joke as soon as Emma began to cry. Baffled by her apparent emotional instability, he led her to a chair and encouraged her to sit down. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "Please don't be offended."

With a soapy pot in one hand, David hastened over to Emma and took stock of her. She lifted her legs and hugged her knees, eclipsing their view of her face. "She's had a hell of a week," he told August. "I should get her back to bed—"

* * *

><p>Mary Margaret patted down her pockets until she located a quarter to pay the parking meter in front of Mr. Gold's pawnshop. The clang of bells startled her as she went inside, but once she got her bearings, she gawked at the display cases and fiddled with the strap on her purse. She looked like a snowdrop in her white cap and woolen coat, with the stalks of her legs outfitted in green corduroy.<p>

As she removed her hat, her eye fell on a chessboard with gold and silver pawns and a child's bracelet that rested on a velvet pillow. When she glimpsed the glass unicorn mobile, she extended her arm and held one of the diminutive creatures in the palm of her hand.

Mr. Gold lurked behind the drapery that divided the main shop from the storehouse in which he kept his less marketable inventory. With the grace of a maestro, he threw back the curtain and traipsed out into the showroom to conduct a masterful performance. "Ah, Ms. Blanchard," he sighed. "What can I do for you?"

Mary Margaret jerked away from the mobile and the unicorns rattled as though they were trying to gallop free from their tethers. "I was – admiring this mobile—" she sputtered. "How much is it?"

Obligingly, Mr. Gold limped over and disentangled the item from the hook on which it was suspended. "There should be a tag on it," he frowned. "I'll give you a special discount."

After Mr. Gold wrapped the glass animals in tissue paper and adjusted the wiry frame, he encased the beautiful object in a protective cellophane covering. "Do you know someone who is going to have a baby?" he asked.

Mary Margaret stared dumbly at him, too slow on the uptake to devise a compelling lie. "Oh, it's for a friend of mine," she insisted. "A teacher—"

As he smirked in such a way that revealed his masculine dimples, Mr. Gold hobbled over to the antique cash register and rung up her purchase. "I'm sure she will be very pleased with it," he assured her.

Nervous energy swirled in the pit of Mary Margaret's stomach, but as she exchanged a handful of bills for the mobile, she bravely took charge of the conversation. "Mr. Gold—"She addressed him in a strikingly lethal tone of voice and glared at him with unshakable resolve. "Did you happen to notice that Emma was acting strangely last night? I know she planned to speak with you—"

Mr. Gold constructed a steeple from his gnarled fingers. He peered at Mary Margaret with a depraved gleam in his eyes and a disconcerting smile that widened into a grin. "Ah, yes. We had quite the chat," he replied. "I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, though. She was a regular doll when I spoke to her. Wouldn't stop talking about _you_, in fact—"

Mary Margaret canted her head and blinked at Mr. Gold, relying on her intuition for guidance. She lingered in front of him, with a pensive expression on her face and suspicion in her heart. "I'll be honest," she told him. "You—"

With churlish impatience, Mr. Gold marched around and dusted the puppets that sat next to a rusty sewing machine; he was suddenly eager for her to leave. "_You_ ought to be heading home, Ms. Blanchard. It is supposed to _snow_ this afternoon—"

When Mr. Gold enunciated the word "snow," he saw her expression undergo a swift transformation.

As he exercised one of his more minor powers of manipulation, Mr. Gold recollected the time that Mr. David Nolan wandered into his shop and asked for directions to the toll bridge. That night, he artfully wove the word "charming" into their discussion. The result was that David had left with the impression that he belonged with Kathryn Nolan, based upon a concocted host of images that bloomed in his mind after he spotted a familiar lawn ornament—

Mr. Gold used the same magic to dispatch Mary Margaret and sent her away with a temporary sense of accomplishment and relief. At dusk, he buttoned up his winter coat and closed up the door to the pawnshop. He stuck a gloved hand into his pocket and coiled his fingers around a spool of thread.

* * *

><p>When Mary Margaret returned to the apartment with an armload of groceries, Emma ventured down to the kitchen and poured herself a bowl of fruit loops. She slurped the rainbow milk from her spoon and evaded the brunette's troubled glances. After the blonde disappeared into the bathroom, David led Mary Margaret aside and apprised her of what had transpired with August. "Did you talk to Archie?" he whispered. "I know Emma doesn't like the idea of seeing a therapist, but I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't think it was necessary. After last night—"<p>

Mary Margaret plucked up the glass mobile and brought it into her room, where she unpackaged the delicate item and strung it up in the corner. "No," she cut him off. "I appreciate your advice, but you don't know her the way that I do. I have to believe that she will confide in me when she's ready—"

David prodded at the hooves of a blue unicorn and then reclined on Mary Margaret's bed. He chose to withhold his opinions for the time being, since neither of them felt alert or clear headed. "I'm exhausted," he admitted. "You must be tired, too. Why don't you lay down with me?"

Mary Margaret snuggled into David, too weary to abstain from accepting his offer of comfort. He smelled like pine and cedar, and she relaxed in his arms, feeling numb. When he began kissing her neck, she rotated away from him and stared at the bell jars and clocks on the far shelf. "You should probably go back to the inn and rest," she murmured.

David extracted himself from Mary Margaret and lumbered up from the mattress. After he gave her a soft peck on the forehead, he gathered up his tie and suit jacket and flung the articles of clothing over his shoulder. He noted that there was an imprint of her pink lipstick on his shirt and forlornly ran his thumb over it. "I'll call you tomorrow," he told her.

As David left, Emma zipped into Mary Margaret's room and paced around at the foot of the bed. Never once did she glance at her friend, but she paused when she spied the glass mobile. The dangling unicorns spun around and she gazed at them in awed silence. At last she looked away and examined the photos and artwork on the wall. "I'm sorry for how I acted earlier," she whispered. "I know you're concerned about me, but I'm fine." Her voice cracked as she uttered the empty reassurance, but she wet her parched lips and smiled to reinforce her implausible assertion. "I'll be home later, okay? I got a lead on the case."

Mary Margaret studied Emma and then sprang up from her supine sprawl. She brushed aside one of the blonde's ringlets, and briskly ghosted her fingers over a bluish-red lump on her skull. "How did you get this?" she demanded.

Emma's face brightened and dimmed faster than a cheap light bulb. She was on the verge of an unsettling epiphany, but her concentration waned and faded. "It's been there all week," she told her. "You should really try to get some sleep tonight. I feel guilty about keeping you up."

Mary Margaret nodded, but she followed Emma around the apartment until she departed. "Wake me up later," she insisted. "So I know that you're home safe—"

* * *

><p>Mr. Gold stashed the satchel of ink and Mary Margaret's peridot ring in a trunk crafted from cherry wood. He added his new treasures to the hoard, hooting gleefully as he lowered them onto the linen that padded the bottom of the crate.<p>

There was an umbrella, a crystal wolf, an old compass, and a hat that had a certain oddball charm—

Emma lounged on his bed and swooned back against the pillows when he joined her. With tweezers, he picked shards of glass out of her thieving little palms. When he finished with the task, he pushed her up on all fours and stroked the underside of her taut belly. "My precious darling, unless you want to bleed again, you had best get wet for me." He kissed the words into her disheveled hair.

Just as he closed in on her, she elbowed him in the groin and squirmed away. She skittered out onto the slippery balcony that overlooked the street and panted as she gripped the iron railings. As she grappled with the loose drainpipe, Mr. Gold lassoed her with his arms and tackled her backwards onto the bed. They wrestled until she clamped her hands around his throat and crushed his windpipe. His eyes bulged with the glaze of death and his skin took on a cyanotic coloration—

Horrified, Emma released his neck and withered onto the floor. She believed she had killed him until he crashed down on top of her. "Ahhh, you naughty brat," he scolded her.

When he blinked, it was as though he looked at her through the wrong end of a magnifying glass; his eyes were abnormally large and round. His flesh darkened until it became gray and reptilian.

He reversed their positioning and inserted himself in her accessible sex. While he drilled into her dry hole and raked his talons up her spine, she screamed and cried. "Tell me," he hissed. "Does this hurt?"

As he pinned her against his chest and forced her to seesaw up and down on his shaft, her limbs went into spasm. "It hurts!" she rasped. "It hurts!"

While she groaned in agony, he plowed in deeper and stretched the diameter of her violated passage. "I bet you wish someone would save you now," he crooned. "Who is going to help you, Emma? Who do you imagine will keep you safe?"

Her body shook from the shock of the pain and she felt herself rupturing again. She grunted and drooled on him, unable to reply. "No mommy, no daddy," he lilted. "Must have been terribly hard growing up without them."

He flayed her open on his cock and quaked as he left his seed buried inside of her.

Smeared in sweat and his sticky fluids, she collapsed while he collected a vial of her tears. After he enfolded her in a blanket, he clomped over to the upright secretary desk that occupied the corner in his master suite. He rustled through a file and perused several documents before hiding them in a drawer. She watched him tramp around until he came back to pet her and cradle her head in his lap. "Don't look at me like that_,_" he whispered. "It was the only way, love. We still have work to do, and we can't have any interruptions, now can we?"

He hunted through the cabinet by the bedside and inspected three ampoules before he selected one and tipped the contents into her mouth. "There, there," he mewed. "I promise it will be over soon."

* * *

><p>From the summit of a hill, Regina gazed down at the sheep that had taken to pasture on an expanse of lush meadow greenery. Children frolicked in the long grasses and folded up their trousers so they could splash around and squish their bare feet in the springtime mud. Crocuses peeked up from the earth and bloomed in the purple color of splendor and royalty.<p>

Just as the sun went down, a troop of mothers appeared and squawked at their boys and girls, ushering them homeward for the evening victuals. In the gloaming light of dusk, Regina vanished and re-materialized in a hut forged from crude stone.

An old man stood in front of the hearth and turned around to face her when he sensed her presence. "You requested an audience with me," he grumbled. "I suggest you use your time wisely."

In her black crepe gown with red diamond markings, Regina looked like a spider. She smirked coyly at him and sashayed around the small enclosure. "Couldn't you have afforded better accommodations?" she asked. "Or is that part of the game you play? Do you trick people into thinking you are an old beggar?"

The elderly man rifled through his traveling pack and handed her a loaf of bread. "If this is your way of asking me for my assistance," he remarked. "I would say you are doing a piss poor job of it."

Regina chucked the loaf of bread over her shoulder, but he waggled his fingers and it tumbled back to him. "What do you want from me?" he asked.

With a throaty laugh, she lowered herself to sit on a stool next to the fireplace. "I know that you were once Rumpelstiltskin's tutor," she mused. "I also know that you once had dealings with my mother. I wish to know more about what it is you do—"

The old man placed a hunk of cheese onto the spongy loaf of bread and bit into the sandwich before he bothered to answer. "Your mother was not my student," he told her. "As for Rumpelstiltskin—" His voice tapered off because he saw a glint of hatred in her eyes. "—I took pity on him," he admitted.

He stoked the fire with a blackened poker and churned up the ashes and embers; they took on the likeness of a bird and then crumbled back into dust. "He was a poor lad when I knew him," he explained. "His family sold him to the grain merchants when he was just a small boy."

While she glared at the cobbled walls, he devoured what remained of his supper. "I taught him ornithomancy and oneiromancy, but he was not the most gifted pupil," he sighed. "You see—he believed that he would only be happy if he acquired power and riches. He misunderstood many of my teachings. I tried to humble him, but it would so happen that Fate willed him to become a monstrosity—"

Impetuously, Regina rose up from her seat and glowered at the old man. "I want to know what dealings you had with my mother!" she barked. "And _you_—you will teach me what you know."

The old man wiped his beard on a kerchief and shook his head to decline. "No, G—I won't do that."

She was stunned that he used her childhood nickname, and stared angrily at him. "How do you know that name?" she demanded.

He pawed through his traveling pack and took out some rudimentary items: thread, chalk and a satchel of pebbles. "Someone once asked me to watch over you and keep you safe," he told her. "I am afraid that I failed—"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note:<strong> I definitely appreciate it when people read and review!

Yes, this is another chapter in which Gold is unspeakably cruel to Emma. There's NO justification, of course. But he's not doing these things without a purpose - =/

And yes – I introduced Rapunzel. I'm just waiting for someone to point out the obvious about that scene.

You'll notice this chapter probably flows a bit differently than the others. That's mostly because there was too much that I wanted to cram into it. I had to remove 2 scenes from the final cut because otherwise it would have been horribly disjointed and way too long. ;(

**Lonewolf3676**: Happy that made you laugh, since Mary Margaret is rather serious in the current chapter.

Gold is certainly despicable. I never intended for him to be quite this awful. I knew he was going to manipulate Emma and control her, but I did not expect him to become this demented. I must admit I'm getting sick of writing him as such a twisted creep, so we'll see some other developments for him in the next chapter. And you're right about Emma – she will be a great heroine.

I realize I could have gone down a decidedly less horrifying path, but in a lot of cases, my stories write themselves. The characters have their own voices and – in some ways – their own intentions. I think that was the case with Gold.

Glad you're intrigued by Rapunzel…though, ahem. There's more to her than meets the eye.

Hopefully this story will always be your favorite. ;P Thank you for your encouragement and kind words. You know I'll keep writing for as long as possible.

**KJohnson17:** I know. "Poor Emma" sums it up. ;( And yes, the scandal was cleared up, but there's no instant gratification in my stories. It'll be a tough road for Mary Margaret and David.

Lastly: yes, Rapunzel…

**Psychobillybutterfly**: Yes, he is sooo evil! ;( I would give you more clues about what he is doing to her, but that would spoil the story for you. I've dropped some subtle hints in the chapters themselves.

A lot will happen when she figures it all out. I know that's vague—but to suffice it to say that I'm building up to some pretty climactic events...


	13. Heart

WARNINGS: References to sexual assault and abuse.

* * *

><p>Emma whisked her fingers over the tufted flowers and vines on the bedspread and then snuggled lower into a burrow of pillows. In a numb and unresponsive state, she stared across the room at a portrait of a small child in a simple dressing gown. The lonesome girl stood underneath a cherry tree that tossed pretty pink blooms into the wind.<p>

A glass of orange juice sat untouched on the nearby nightstand, alongside a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered toast. Mary Margaret slipped a thermometer between Emma's clamped lips and prodded at her neck to check for puffy glands. "You have a fever," she murmured. "Is your throat sore? How come you didn't eat your breakfast?"

The muffled noises captured her attention, but Emma could neither assimilate speech sounds nor process what was happening. All of her thoughts and feelings deserted her. She looked as hollow as a white chocolate rabbit with hard candy eyes.

In an automated voice, Emma pronounced that she was "fine." She coiled away from Mary Margaret's touch and absently plucked at a loose yellow string on the textured cotton blanket.

Mary Margaret exited her bedroom and slumped down next to the pantry in the kitchen. She cried soundlessly into her open palms, feeling overspent and discouraged. After she dried her face with a dishrag, she picked up the telephone and dialed the number for the main office at the elementary school. While she waited to speak with the secretary, she nibbled on an old croissant and gulped down strong coffee.

Earlier, Mary Margaret had awakened to find Emma banging around in the medicine cabinet. Bottles of pills were scattered on the tile floor, but no matter how Mary Margaret pleaded, she could not compel Emma to communicate what she needed. For hours, she endured Emma's turbulent tantrums and sporadic bouts of crying. She succeeded in bundling her up and coaxing her into bed, but as soon as Emma's outbursts subsided, the blonde resorted to her other default method of coping with pain. Emma became stoic and silent, while Mary Margaret expended the last of her stamina by fretfully tending to her more minor ailments—

Jittery from the caffeine, Mary Margaret paced from the kitchen to the bathroom and gathered up the prescription bottles that littered the floor in front of the vanity. As she popped the lid off of the aspirin and dumped three tablets into her hand—one for herself, two for Emma—she chatted with the school secretary and explained that she was ill.

On any other day, Mary Margaret would have hated to lie to Mrs. Norris, but when she assessed herself in the mirror, she realized the integrity behind her words. Worry sucked at her heart with vampiric fangs and left her feeling sick and drained.

When Mary Margaret at last mustered the energy to return to Emma, she discerned darkling anguish in her jade green eyes."Emma," she whispered. "Are you doing okay?"

In answer to the question, Emma gave a quiet sob that intensified into a shrill wail. Her body shook with seismic tremors and she lapsed into another fit of hysteria. Bubbles of saliva formed on her tongue and her face poured out her resurgent emotions in a mixture of glistening perspiration and tears.

Emma reached for Mary Margaret with the persistence of a child that wanted to be held.

Mary Margaret rocked the blonde while she wept, alternately rubbing her trembling shoulders and heaving back. "I'm here," she assured her. "Do you want me to sing to you again? I could sing to you."

In the gloom of early morning, Mary Margaret hummed a soft lullaby that proved effective in calming Emma after her recent sleep terrors. She kissed the crown of Emma's head and rearranged her long golden tresses to keep them from sticking to her damp cheeks.

Emma listened to the sweet melody, but the inconstant ache of her injuries prevented her from relaxing. She slid her arm underneath the covers and groped at her swollen thighs before cupping her hand over her lower abdomen. Her body felt as though it had been cored through the center—like a pitted fruit. From her groin, she gushed pulpy red juices and syrupy seeds.

When Emma whimpered and cuddled in closer to her, Mary Margaret experienced a heightened, intuitive panic. Her instincts guided her hand as she mopped the sweat from Emma's brow and then carefully peeled the quilt away from her legs. "What?" she asked. "What is it?"

With a pitiful whine, Emma clutched her tummy and locked her knees together. Her eyebrows curved sharply inward and she winced when Mary Margaret gingerly examined her exposed skin. "Hurts," she asserted.

Struck by a fearful curiosity, Mary Margaret lifted up the hem of Emma's nightshirt and spotted deep skin bruises that stretched along her belly and down to her lacy, blood-soaked panties. "How did this happen?" she cried. "Who did this to you?"

Distressed and delirious, Emma watched while Mary Margaret's face swam and then spiraled around faster than clay in a potter's wheel. Suffering a dizzy spell, she slumped forward and cracked her head on the wrought iron bed frame. Dazed from the blow, she dropped onto a pile of cushions and blinked up at the dancing light fixture.

When her vision flickered back into focus, Emma stared into the stormy eyes of a paramedic. With an oxygen mask strapped over her mouth, she groaned hoarsely and muttered an incoherent plea.

Mary Margaret ran her fingers through the tumbleweed of Emma's hair and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. She weaseled into the scant space between a hulking EMT and the paneled door of the ambulance. While one of the technicians applied a cold compress to Emma's forehead, Mary Margaret planted a kiss on her upturned palm. "I'm with you," she told Emma. "I won't leave you."

As the medics hoisted Emma from the emergency vehicle and transported her through the halls of the hospital, Mary Margaret clasped her shaking hand and scurried alongside the gurney.

Unable to keep her head up, Emma propped herself against a stiff pillow and allowed her eyelids to close. When the medics pushed her bed into the corner of an empty room, a middle-aged nurse appeared and approached Mary Margaret. "I'm Michelle Moriarty," she greeted them. "You can call me Shelly."

In her violet scrubs and matching foam footwear, Shelly looked like an overripe plum. She wore a necklace with a chipped amethyst pendant and stud earrings that similarly complemented her color scheme. After she glanced at the patient file in her hands, she frowned at Mary Margaret and then directed her attention to Emma. "Sheriff Swan," she sighed. "I'm so sorry about the circumstances—"

Shelly fiddled with the pen that was attached to her clipboard and jotted information on a consent form. "Given what Ms. Blanchard told the paramedics, I think it would be wise to do a rape kit." Her eyes imparted sympathy, while her tone conveyed that she meant business. "If you feel uncomfortable at any point during the exam and want to stop, you won't be pressured to continue. I'll need you to sign this form."

With a face stenciled by grief, Mary Margaret eased onto the bed next to Emma. When Shelly stepped out into the corridor, the brunette sought to make eye contact with her friend. "Tell me who did this," she demanded.

Emma turned towards Mary Margaret and drew her knees up to her chest. She knocked a tear away from her cheek, and as the silvery droplet hit the floor, it sparkled like a sequin torn from a party dress. "I'm going to figure that out," she promised. "But first I need you to go tell the nurse that you were wrong, and I need you to be convincing about it."

Mary Margaret flinched and her eyebrows contracted inward. Staggered by the request, she gaped briefly at Emma before taking a strong opposition to all that it implied. "What do you mean?" she blustered. "You need medical attention! Emma, someone _hurt_ you—"

With her mouth stitched downward in a frown of defeat, Emma set her doleful eyes on Mary Margaret. "You know that if I go through with the exam, it will only be a matter of time before Regina appoints someone else as sheriff. She'll discredit me," she whispered. "She'll find some way to make it look like I was asking for it. If I don't have my job, I can't catch the person who did this to me." Her nostrils flared and she retracted her chin. "Aside from that - _Henry_ _will find out about what happened_. I need to protect him from what people will say—"

Mary Margaret could neither curb her sense of outrage nor control her angry tears. "No!" she insisted. "I won't let Regina get away with that. I'll tell everyone that she's lying."

Emma fidgeted with the brown leather cord that she kept knotted around her left wrist. She regarded Mary Margaret with strengthening resolve, but then let her gaze falter and fall. "After what happened last week, we both have a reputation," she reminded her. "No one will believe us."

Despair eclipsed the fury in Mary Margaret's face as she considered the tenability of Emma's argument. Infused with a combination of sorrow and doubt, her voice spiked a decibel as she asked, "What do you want me to do?"

* * *

><p>It was as though a giantess in the sky had cut a string of her best pearls. Beads of hail scattered everywhere and bounced along the sidewalk in front of the town hall.<p>

In a pinstriped, freshly laundered suit, Mr. Gold took the stairs up to mayor's office. Behind her desk, Regina awaited him with her lips pinched into a nasty scowl.

With a smug smile, Mr. Gold took inventory of the room and glanced sideways at the alabaster statue of a horse that occupied the mantel above the fireplace. He tapped his cane on the floor as he strutted around and then chose to sit at the conference table. "Dearie," he cooed. "Please be so kind as to join me."

Regina's complexion darkened as though bathed in the glow from hot cinders. She stalked over to him and selected an adjacent chair at the table. Mr. Gold never exercised his powers for trivial purposes, but as he uttered the word 'please' in order to get her to switch seats, he further confirmed that his operational methods had changed. "I have work to do," she spat. "I suggest you get right to the point. What do you want from me?"

Mr. Gold strummed his fingers against his briefcase and then unclasped it. He extracted a thick file and paged through the documents it contained. "You need to learn to make time for old friends," he told her. "Especially the ones who come bearing gifts."

Regina sneered at the file and tried to allay her rising agitation. "Friends don't usually charge for their gifts," she snorted. "Tell me what you want."

As his grin widened and his metallic tooth glinted in the dim overhead lighting, Mr. Gold looked like a pirate with a treasure map in his hand. "You know me too well," he remarked. "I was hoping you would make me a present in return. I could also use a favor, but we can discuss that another day—"

Riled and impatient, Regina snatched the file from him and flipped through the collection of confidential records. She scanned testimonials written by social workers and pediatricians, at first confused by what she was reading. "What is this?" she murmured.

Assailed by unbidden revulsion, Regina abruptly slammed the documents down on the table. "How did you get access to all of these files?" she snarled.

Mr. Gold noticed the spotlight of fear on the blackened stage of Regina's face. "Does that matter?" he asked. "You now have the upper hand on Ms. Swan. Believe me, you are going to need it—"

Regina lowered her arms and ran her fingertips over the paisley pattern on her upholstered chair. "And why is that?" she snapped. "Why do you suddenly think that Ms. Swan is such a threat?"

Mr. Gold permitted his eyes to wander towards the birch tree wallpaper and then back to the basket of apples that maintained their crisp, flawless skin throughout the harsh winter. In a sinister play, he removed the red kerchief from his pocket and threw it down in front of her. He trusted she would understand the symbolic meaning of the gesture.

After an interlude during which Regina tensed and glanced away from him, Mr. Gold stood up and hobbled over to her desk. "I suggest you publish all of the documents pertaining to her juvenile indiscretions," he hummed. "Or did you have another use for them in mind? You always were creative when it came to enacting dirty plots—"

Dread churned in Regina's stomach, but she launched herself across the room. She pinned the file folder underneath a translucent paperweight and then growled at him like a feral animal. "What is it you want in return for your 'gift'?"

Mr. Gold plied his hands over the sealed cache on the corner of the desk. "This is what I want," he announced. "I know how much you hate to share, but it's really no good to you at the moment, now is it?"

Regina tried to reclaim the possession, but Mr. Gold swung jauntily to the side and dodged her advances. He eyeballed the rubies that were encrusted on the decorative pewter box and smiled coyly. "If I must, I'll ask nicely," he told her.

Infuriated by his tactics, Regina circled around him and swiped menacingly at his face. He seized her by the elbow and jerked her arm into a twist. "Don't make an enemy out of me," he warned her. "You will most certainly regret it."

When Regina shrank away from him, Mr. Gold broke the latch on the box and peered at the luminous heart within. "It must be maddening," he observed. "You have disposed of countless adversaries, but as many times as you've tried, you cannot dispose of one woman."

They both knew that there was a reason Regina did not keep that particular heart in the vault where she interned hundreds of other hearts—it belonged to Snow White, and she preferred to keep it close at hand.

Regina arranged her teeth into tight, even rows and smiled ruthlessly. "You can borrow her heart," she seethed. "But I expect you to return it when you are finished—"

Mr. Gold accepted the terms of the agreement and bid her farewell with a sweeping, final look. "I shall do as you wish," he promised her. "Have a good day, Your Majesty."

As soon as he exited the office, Regina gathered Mr. Gold's silk kerchief in her hands and stared at it in wide-eyed horror.

* * *

><p>The Victorian mansion was a curiosity and an eyesore, but it suited Mr. Gold in a way no other residence could. With the peculiar peach finish and forest green trim, it appealed to his unconventional and yet grandiloquent style. From the street, the façade seemed welcoming and cheerful, but the house had all the qualities of a man-eating plant—it may have been handsome and colorful, but the beast within was still carnivorous.<p>

In his long tweed jacket, Jefferson stamped the snow from his boots and pounded on the door of the home. When Mr. Gold materialized, he squeezed by the older man and entered the foyer. "You made her steal from me," he raved. "I gave you the tea because you said that you could help her uncover the truth about her destiny—"

Jefferson's quicksilver eyes flashed over the antiquities that filled the parlor. He searched for his top hat even while he lashed Mr. Gold with his tongue. "Where is it?" he demanded. "What have you done with my hat? She can fix it—"

Mr. Gold hardly reacted to the younger man's impudent displays of frustration. Instead, he laid out the present that he had acquired from Regina, and then splashed a vial of Emma's tears over the pulsating organ that the pewter box contained. "Nothing like a child's tears to cloud a mother's judgment," he mused. "O_r_ to wound her dear heart-"

Jefferson strained to catch Mr. Gold's words, but he became distracted when he espied the shards of the chipped china cup. He bent down and scooped the white and blue porcelain into his hands, then stood and inspected them more closely. "I recognize this craftsmanship," he frowned.

While Mr. Gold was otherwise engaged, Jefferson pocketed the pieces of the cup and slouched over the divan. "I want to know what you intend to do with my hat," he spluttered. "Your dirty deals have given you quite a reputation, but I've never heard a single story about you being a thief—"

Mr. Gold glanced at the rack of potions he had moved down into the parlor. Only a handful of the ampoules remained unused, but he stirred a new concoction with brewed herbs while Jefferson restlessly tromped from one end of the room to the other. "That is because I am not a thief," he told him. "I always honor my contracts. As I promised, Ms. Swan will get your hat to work—"

Jefferson pitched forward on his toes and then back onto his heels. He licked his lips and squinted into the older man's dreary eyes. "When?" he demanded. "When will she get it to work?"

The pawnbroker cooked a vial of clear liquid, and just as the elixir became a shade of scarlet red, he swirled it into a mason jar. "Soon," he crooned. "Soon enough—"

* * *

><p>Emma stored her ruined panties in a standard issue paper bag and stashed the scrap of evidence away on the shelf in her closet. She sipped diet soda from a glass and swallowed an emergency contraceptive, chasing it down with more aspirin. Alone in the apartment, she shuffled around the kitchen in her robe and then hastened into the bathroom. After she spun the nozzle on the faucet and let the water in the tub rise to the brimming point, she slumped into the scalding bubbles and shut her eyes.<p>

In spite of her neglect and lack of precaution, the sutured cuts on her belly and hip were beginning to heal—but they still stung when Emma plunged herself into the bath. Her skin pruned as she washed her body and then concentrated on the tender area between her legs. With a sudsy sponge, she continued scrubbing until her fingers became raw and her hand started to tremble.

She looked like a plastic mermaid submerged in a fish tank—unfeeling and expressionless.

When she at last emerged from the bath, she shrugged into a long chemise and a hooded sweatshirt. She then tripped up the stairs to her room, flopped down onto her bed and drifted into a disturbed sleep-

In her nightmare, Mr. Gold wrapped himself around her while she dozed, like a dragon guarding his hoard of riches. When he slithered away, he transformed into a toy snake with impressively realistic markings. She glanced wistfully at the costly toy before stacking her cheap blocks into a squat, dilapidated castle.

Dressed in folded-up overalls and a t-shirt the color of pink cotton candy, Emma crawled across the living room floor and built a second tower using a set of coasters. Mr. Rothbauer came in from the backyard and offered chocolate bars to Daniela and Toby, who were shouting, "vroom" and racing their dinky cars across the nearby linoleum. The boy and girl both gorged themselves on chocolate without once glancing at their foster sister.

With sad, six-year-old eyes, Emma observed while the other children gobbled down their treats.

As Mr. Rothbauer sauntered towards the blonde-haired girl, he waved another chocolate bar in front of her face, as if he intended to make her fetch it. "Here's one for you," he told her. "But I need you to be a big, grown-up girl for me again."

Emma took the treat and scratched off the foil, but paused when he detailed the conditions under which she could eat it. She put the chocolate bar down on top of a purple block and scooted away from him.

After Mr. Rothbaur yelled at her, Emma quickly rescinded, stuffed the sweet into her mouth and choked on it. He ripped her up from the floor and carried her towards the bedroom that she shared with Daniela.

The dream dissolved into a fog of obscurity, but little Emma felt like she was on an awful swing and pumped her legs until they grew tired—

Startled awake by that evocative movement, Emma flattened her cold hands against her warm cheeks and relieved the pressure in her sinuses by squeezing her nose. She stared across the room at the cardboard box that still housed her summer wardrobe, and then glanced at the manila envelope that concealed the paper trail of leads she pursued in order to find her birth parents.

Impulsively, Emma sprang out of bed and grabbed a packet of matches. In a cross-legged pose, she sat on the carpet and lit fire to the manila envelope.

As the flame devoured the paper, Mary Margaret opened the door and gawped at Emma. "What are you doing?" she gasped.

With her shoulders hunched and her eyes fixated on the blaze, Emma clenched her jaw like a snapper turtle on the defensive. "Setting fire to the apartment," she remarked. "Figured this file would make good kindling—"

Mary Margaret pedaled into the room and knelt beside Emma. "Isn't that the file that contains all of the leads you have on your parents?" she asked. "How are you going to find them without it?"

Emma stamped her foot over the burning paper, disinclined to care if it would singe the rug. "My parents don't deserve to meet me," she told her. "Or maybe I've finally come to the conclusion that I don't need to meet them—"

Mary Margaret shriveled up as though she too was made of burning paper. "Why?" she cried. "Emma, you can't give up hope because of—"

"Because they _probably_ left me to die on the side of the freeway?" Emma asked her. "Or because they thought that the best option was to let strangers raise me and _shape_ me as a person?" As bitterness coursed through her, Emma plodded towards the corner of her bedroom where her baby blanket hung from a knob on her bureau. She stifled the rash urge to ignite it and instead glared at Mary Margaret. With a dangerous gleam of hatred in her eyes and a deranged smirk plastered on her face, Emma chucked the wool blanket onto the floor. "How about because they never protected me? _No one_ protected me—"

When Emma stooped to set fire to the blanket, Mary Margaret interceded and wrenched it away from her. "Please stop this, Emma," she cried. "You'll regret it later if you don't—"

* * *

><p>In the afternoon, Ruby phoned the apartment to report a case of petty theft and to complain that the perpetrator had broken the window on her car. Mary Margaret took a message and vowed to dispatch it to Emma, but instead she joined the blonde underneath the floral covers on her bed and decided that she would delay telling her about the crime until the morning. "Do you need some more aspirin?" she whispered. "I can get it for you—"<p>

With an icepack between her thighs, Emma stared catatonically at a picture of Mary Margaret and Henry. "No," she mumbled. "Just took some."

Mary Margaret handed the picture to Emma and then fluffed the pillows behind her back. "I always see you looking at it," she explained. "It's a good one of Henry. I want you to keep it—"

Emma hugged the gift to her chest and settled in next to Mary Margaret. "Are you sure?" she asked.

Mary Margaret indicated her certainty with a nod and then yanked the bedspread up to Emma's chin. "As long as you agree to let me take care of you," she told her. "That means you have to tell me when you need something—"

As Emma considered accepting the agreement, David rapped on the door of the apartment and used the spare key to let himself inside. He juggled bags of take-out and plopped them down on the kitchen countertop before gamboling into the room. "I brought dinner," he announced. "I figured neither one of you would have the energy to cook—"

Mary Margaret perked up when David came into the room. "_Thank you_," she enunciated. "That's really thoughtful—"

Taken off guard by his unexpected arrival, Emma pressed herself back against the bed frame and hunkered down beneath the quilt.

David trundled across the wood floor and glanced sideways at the picture of Mary Margaret and Henry. "How are you?" he asked Emma.

With her shoulders strung together and her eyes aimed elsewhere, Emma fumbled to re-organize the cushions on the bed. She wept noiselessly into a soft pillow and hung her head so that neither David nor Mary Margaret could witness her abrupt mood swing. Her tears stung like drops of sour lemon juice as they drizzled along her stubby nose and into her mouth.

As soon as she noted how the question affected Emma's behavior, Mary Margaret shot up from the mattress. "She's—" she balked. "She needs to eat."

Mary Margaret quickly motioned for David to follow her into the kitchen. Once they were positioned in front of the stove, she placed her hands on his chest and looked into his cerulean eyes. "Would you spend the night?" she asked. "On the couch—"

David furrowed his brow, smiled faintly at her and then rubbed at his light facial hair. "Of course I will," he told her. "I said that I would do whatever I can to help you."

As David enclosed his arms around her, Mary Margaret gravitated closer to him and meshed their fingers together. "David," she mumbled. "I- I need—to get back to Emma—"

After they parted from each other, Mary Margaret prepared three plates of beef chow mein and white rice. When she bustled back into the bedroom, David traipsed behind her. They both attempted to engage Emma in conversation, but the blonde dragged her fork over her dish and neither ate nor spoke.

Once he finished eating, David excused himself and headed into the living room. He sensed Emma's discomfort and suspected that his presence only added to it.

.

Much later, Mary Margaret felt her heart throb as she draped another blanket over Emma and lulled her to sleep. "Rest," she whispered. "I'll—protect you."

* * *

><p>The lake was an infected gash on the belly of the earth, crusted over by the disease of winter. Bald trees writhed with their own calamity, looking as vulnerable as infants prematurely expelled from the womb.<p>

From behind a flailing oak, Baelfire flashed his lantern and beckoned to the young girl who accompanied him through the forest. He then darted along a path that led to a jagged-mouthed cave in the hills.

While the girl warmed herself by his small campfire, the boy kicked off his boots and sprawled out on a scraggly mat. "I require thread," he explained. "The golden thread. Have you heard of it?"

The girl took a twig from Baelfire's heap of tinder and etched a face into the dirt. "Oh yes," she whispered. "I have heard the story of the six swans."

Baelfire patted down his overlarge pockets and produced supper for them. He supplied the girl with a jar of strawberry jam and a baguette that he toasted over the fire. "Tell me what you know about the thread," he requested.

As she chomped on the baguette and savored the sweetness of the jam, the girl skipped nimbly between an outcropping of rock and the entry to the cave. "A great king once used the golden yarn to keep track of his children, but it fell into the hands of an evil sorceress," she told him. "Once, I heard a story about a tailor who acquired a piece of that string. He has used it as thread to make magnificent hats and wishing caps-"

Baelfire pawed through his bag and searched for the wool that he planned to give Snow White. "What would occur if someone wove the thread into a blanket?" he inquired.

The girl licked the mushy jam from the back of her arm and sat down beside Baelfire. "I am not quite sure," she replied.

With a frown, the boy stood up and cantered further into the recesses of the cave where he often went to think in solitude.

His father relied on him to procure the golden thread, but Baelfire wondered why anyone would use such a powerful instrument to adorn a blanket-

In his nightly prophetic dreams, Baelfire saw the child for which the gift was intended. He envisioned Snow White swathing the baby in the pretty blanket and kissing the downy fluff on her tiny head.

He imagined Prince Charming looking down at his daughter, and both parents smiling joyfully as she squirmed and yawned for the first time.

As Baelfire sifted through stones and flung them into the shadows, he continued to puzzle over his visions. He convinced himself that nothing foul could come from helping his father, since he knew exactly what would happen to the thread once he found it-

After all, what harm could come from a blanket that was twined with glossy ribbon and embroidered with a child's _name_?

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: So, you should all probably be wondering where Mary Margaret went while Emma was all by herself in the apartment…

Also, I should let you all know that The Six Swans (so perfectly named) is one of Grimm's fairytales. I've been setting this up from the beginning. If you refer back to Chapter 1, you'll see that Baelfire gives Rumpelstiltskin a ball of gold thread/yarn-

This is the primary reason why Rumpel has power over Emma (when it comes to her name, anyway). It's also the reason he was able to track her down, even when she went to Arizona...

**Lonewolf3676**: Yes, I **HAD** to work in the fruit loops.

It's going to take a long time before Emma trusts MM, as you well know.

Gold – well – I won't tell you what I have in store for him. But you shall see soon enough!

There's definitely a reason why he's gathering those items, but I needn't tell you that.

David is difficult to write, but yes – I definitely wanted an Emma/David interaction in the last chapter. It's not as great as it probably could have been, but I don't think I could have executed it any differently.

Sigh. I hope I can update more frequently in the coming weeks.

**Kendra Luehr**: Going to respond to your comments for each chapter. ;)

Chapter 2: Thank you! Originally, I only posted Emma as the featured character. I was hesitant to post it as a pairing fic, primarily because there are multiple pairings. I'm happy that you're invested in the story.  
>Chapter 3: That's true. In this chapter, Emma is self-assuredunruffled by him, but she's also keenly aware that she can't get a clear read on him the way she does with a lot of other people. That definitely bothers her.

Chapter 4: The tattoo is a complicated thing. You'll notice that in one of the later chapters, a 5-year-old Baelfire claims that it represents _him_. Eventually you'll find out more about all of this, but for now, accept it as an affirmation that 1) Gold correlates the image with his son _and _Emma, and 2) Gold correlates the image with a prophecy, which we don't yet know too much about.

Chapter 5: Thank you. ;) Yes, I feel that the show is not only progressing too slowly, but also that they're also missing out on opportunities for great group scenes. It seems like they have a lot of great actors sitting around doing nothing. We rarely get an episode that includes *all* of the characters.

Chapter 6: Thanks! That's quite a compliment. I spend a lot of time jotting down lists of words that I think will be useful to me when I sit down to write. I have a whole list for each character, including Rumpelstiltskin. I also spent a long time writing that dream sequence with the descriptions of the various men in Emma's life. I edited that _so_ many times.

Chapter 7: I'm glad you're enjoying the interactions with the Charmings. Sorry to say that I ruin MM/David's relationship later on in the fic, but I will eventually repair it.

Chapter 9: I sent you a PM about this, because it was the first review that I saw. Rumpelstiltskin isn't Baelfire's biological father in my fic, but Regina is the boy's mother. ;)

Chapter 11: Cool, choir! I'm sure most of the people who will be reading this don't know much about the Carmina Burana, but it's a great collection of poetry in German and Latin. I decided to incorporate it because (obviously) Grimm's fairytales were originally written in German. There are also poems in this collection that describe swans (roasted swans, in particular), and a specific poem that reminds me of Rumpelstiltskin.

Chapter 12: Ah, yes, but Gold needs Emma in order to un-hatch his plot. =/

There are a lot of things that Gold wants, but he's currently unhinged. Like you said, you can never tell with him—

Chapter 13: Emma is in a perpetual haze of forgetfulness. On some level, she's under Gold's control. She wouldn't consciously steal from anyone, especially Mary Margaret. Gold is not only dominating her physically, but he's also dominating her in some psychological sense.

You're right—Emma does have a vulnerable side. She's still a hard-ass, for sure. But yes, she is a victim here.

**KJohnson17**: Thank you! Yes, Gold is still detestable. I'm going to try to make my updates more frequent, but I anticipate that the next few chapters will be rather long and may take some time to complete. Alas. ;(


	14. Thief

**WARNINGS**: Violence; references to sexual abuse; nonconsensual sex.

There's also some humor and some fluff—

* * *

><p>The night looked smudged and imperfect, like a child's drawing of all it should be—crayoned in black and white and gray, without careful attention to the placement of the moon or the number of stars.<p>

Mary Margaret tiptoed through the apartment with a mug of hot cocoa and stood in front of her bedroom window. As she stared out at the street lamps and the shops on the main road, she cried into her drink and let her teardrops mix with the warm chocolate, whipped cream and cinnamon. When she took a sip of the dark liquid, she tasted the flavors of her own worry and despair.

.

.

.

While Emma spent the afternoon napping, Mary Margaret had traveled across town to schedule an appointment with a doctor who ran a private practice. After the little man assured her that there were no appointments available for the next few weeks, the brunette went straight to the mayor's house. In a stern, indignant tone of voice, she had greeted Regina with a speech and a demand. "I know you're afraid of losing Henry, but this has to stop," she warned her. "You and Emma have to find some way to peacefully co-exist—"

Regina had snarled at the suggestion and explained why Ms. Swan was not only ill suited for motherhood, but also why the sheriff could not be trusted to take care of a houseplant, let alone a small boy. "Read the paper in the morning," she proposed. "You'll certainly develop a better understanding of the woman you let into your life and your home."

In her clipped contralto, Regina left Mary Margaret at the door with a final exhortation: "You might want to think about getting a new roommate – because I can _assure_ you – after tomorrow, Ms. Swan will be leaving Storybrooke…"

Unsettled by her assumptions and understated threats, Mary Margaret had returned home to an evening punctuated by tantrums, take-out and tears-

When Emma slipped into a sleep burdened by frightful dreams, the brunette whispered a promise that she desperately hoped to uphold. "I'll protect you," she insisted. "You're safe—"

.

.

.

From where she hovered at a distance, Mary Margaret watched over the young woman in the bed.

With her legs trapped underneath a scrunched up blanket and her arms stiffly at her sides, Emma looked like a doll encased in a display box. Her wrists might have been bound with plastic bands and her accessories affixed to pink cardboard.

Mary Margaret set her mug down on top of the nightstand and then rearranged the twisted bedspread. She skimmed her fingers through the thicket of Emma's gold hair and combed errant curls away from her face. "It will be okay," she murmured. "I have an idea—"

As if sensing her presence, Emma snuggled into her touch and breathed contentedly. She smelled of baby powder and another indistinct scent that Mary Margaret correlated with images of a helpless, squalling newborn. "You'll see," she told her. "I won't let anyone hurt you—"

.

.

In a rumpled quilt with hearts and tiny houses sewn into each of the patches, David dragged himself away from the cramped couch and grunted when he promptly tripped over a shoe. He discerned that it was a high heel because of the way it vengefully stabbed him in the foot, but he hopped across the floor of the apartment, undeterred by the obstacle. When he brushed back the airy curtain that hung between the kitchen and the downstairs bedroom, he squinted at Mary Margaret and sighed. "Why are you still awake?" he asked her. "Tell me what's on your mind."

Mary Margaret kissed one of Emma's clammy hands and then shuffled out into the main room. She skittered around the stairwell and plopped down on the bottom step. "David," she addressed him. "I need you to help me steal some newspapers—"

He shivered as he followed Mary Margaret into the drafty foyer, but readily removed the blanket from around his shoulders and draped it over her. "What?" he muttered. "Newspapers?"

While Mary Margaret fiddled with the leather strap on her timepiece, she estimated that they would have to collect over seven hundred newspapers in under two hours if they intended to keep the citizens of Storybrooke from reading them. "Mayor Mills is going to publish another exposé," she spluttered. "Somehow she's gotten ahold of Emma's personal files and she plans to use them to discredit her. We have to steal those papers—"

David scratched at his shorn hair and the growth of stubble on the underside of his neck. "What are we going to do?" he balked. "Drive around and steal them right off of peoples' front lawns?"

Mary Margaret sprang across the room with the enthusiasm of a performer at a pep rally. "Some people don't have front lawns," she reasoned. "But yes—that's the basic idea."

After he resigned himself to the prospect of becoming a thief, David ruminated over the logistics of her plan. "I don't know if it's such a good one," he cautioned her. "I understand that you want to help Emma, but I'm not sure that we can pull this off—"

Her sorrowful pout prevented him from protesting as she gathered up their winter coats. "Please," she begged. "Regina is going to ruin her—"

His baritone was conciliatory and his eyes gleamed, full of tenderness and love. "We have an hour before the papers are delivered," he huffed. "I'm going to make some phone calls. You better put on something warmer than what you're wearing—"

In her exuberant haste, Mary Margaret retrieved a navy blue sweater from her laundry basket and tugged it on over her camisole. She traded her pajamas for a pair of pleated pants and then searched through her handbag to find her cellphone. "I'll call Ruby," she announced. "It's four A.M. She'll either be sound asleep, or just getting home—"

David scrolled through the list of contacts on his phone and then glanced at the clock. "If we're going to do this," he frowned. "—We'll need all the help we can get. Call her."

.

.

.

.

In her plaid jacket and knee-high boots, Ruby trudged up the stairs and rapped on the door of the apartment. With a carpetbag and her bundle of knitting, Granny plodded after her. Mary Margaret beckoned them inside and together they joined the assembly of their closest friends.

After she poured coffee into thermoses and distributed them amongst her guests, Mary Margaret drew Granny aside. "Are you sure you don't mind staying with Emma?" she asked.

Granny fumbled with her spectacles, but then changed her mind and decided not to hassle with them, after all. She narrowed her eyes at Mary Margaret and whipped her jowls into a genial smile. "Not at all," she assured her. "I brought along my knitting, and my semi-automatic handgun—"

With an exasperated groan, Ruby stormed around her grandmother. "Please tell me you're joking," she grunted. "You're so paranoid—"

Already weary from arguing with her granddaughter, Granny lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table and added a teaspoon of sugar to her coffee. "After what happened last week, we all need to take certain precautions," she insisted.

Mary Margaret expressed her silent agreement by patting Granny on the shoulder and offering her a gingersnap cookie. "I convinced Emma to take a sleeping pill last night," she told her. "I doubt she'll wake up, but if she does, don't hesitate to call me—"

David carried a box of flashlights into the room and saluted Archie and Marco with a nod. "Thank you for coming out to help us," he hummed. "You don't know how much we appreciate it."

Archie dusted cookie crumbs from the front of his coat and then smiled bashfully while he cleaned his circular lenses. "It's the least I can do," he stammered. "If it wasn't for Ms. Swan, why—I would have fallen down the old mine shaft! You would have never heard from me again."

When another knock came at the door, Mary Margaret hustled over to open it. In a hunting hat and a bulky thermal vest, Leroy stomped into the apartment and acknowledged Marco with a lazy scowl.

At a loss for words, Mary Margaret blinked at him and lifted an eyebrow as he slouched down in the seat next to Granny. "Leroy?" she asked. "What are you doing here?"

With his droopy eyes and his squat, thickset build, Leroy looked like a bulldog. "_Someone_ woke me up," he barked. "I'm here to help."

Marco cleared his throat and politely interceded by clapping his hand over Leroy's shoulder. "He is indebted to the sheriff," he explained. "I felt – _eh_ – that he ought to be here."

Leroy glowered at Marco and then snatched a frosted cookie from the platter on the table. "She may have let me out of the clink once or twice without forcing me to cough up the bail money," he admitted.

Mary Margaret shed a tear of gratitude as she glanced around at her small group of friends and sympathetic acquaintances. "We should head out," she proposed. "We'll start on the north side of town and work our way south—"

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.

.

.

Drowsy and half-conscious, Emma toddled into the kitchen and stumbled over the heap of newspapers that occupied the space in front of the stove. When she whirled around, she gaped at towering stacks of _The Daily Mirror _and the confederation of thieves who had stolen them. "Wow," she muttered aloud. "I guess the sleeping pill I took was really _that_ good."

Mary Margaret deadpanned as soon as Emma tromped into the room. She peeled off her cap, unwound her scarf, and then regarded the blonde as though she was a skittish animal that would run at the slightest provocation. "Emma," she enunciated. "Please come here."

While David escorted their friends to the door and then accompanied them out to their vehicles, Emma scanned the headlines on the front page of the newspaper.

When she was halfway through a blurb of text that mentioned the names of her foster parents, Emma glanced up at Mary Margaret. She detachedly perused the description of her arrest, the plea bargains related to her case, and the details of the subsequent court proceedings. Then she clambered up the stairs to her bedroom—

As she gasped for breath, Emma gripped her bureau and tried to get her bearings.

Mary Margaret pursued her through the apartment and stood poised outside of her door. "Please," she cried. "Let me explain what happened. I—I went to see Regina yesterday. I couldn't sit by and allow you to suffer in silence! I know it was stupid to try to reason with her, but then she told me what she planned to do—"

Emma slumped down at the end of her bed and tucked her knees up to her chin. Her eyes were hollowed by dark shadows, and her forehead became riddled with grooves of tension.

When Mary Margaret mustered the nerve to enter the room, she stooped beside her roommate and tentatively extended a hand to fix the crooked collar on her nightshirt. "I couldn't let her hurt you," she whispered. "She wants you to give up hope and run back to Boston. That's why she published that article. If she's willing to tell such blatant lies, she has to be desperate—"

Emma kept her lip from quivering by sucking it into a tight pucker. "She didn't lie, Mary Margaret. I was charged on three accounts."

The brunette bent her head and furrowed her brow; it was as if she believed those simple actions would somehow provide her with much-needed insight.

Pale and discomposed, Emma pulled herself away from her friend. "My lawyer got the plaintiff to drop two of the charges before we went to trial," she mumbled. "But I was guilty. I almost killed someone—"

Mary Margaret balked at the confession, but managed to nod and demonstrate that she understood. Her mind absorbed the information, but her heart refused to accept it.

With her arms folded over her chest, Emma resisted the urge to surrender to her anger and cry. "I need to be alone," she whispered. "Please—"

At a speed that betrayed her reluctance, Mary Margaret ambled out into the hall and descended the stairs. She picked up a copy of _The Daily Mirror _and studied a black-and-white picture of a young girl who looked downtrodden and scared. "Emma," she sighed.

.

.

In solitude, Emma retreated to her bed. Without invitation, her memories accompanied her—

* * *

><p>The bathroom at the trucker diner smelled of perspired bodies and sex, and the commodes were perpetually covered with reams of toilet tissue that had been thrown around like party streamers. All of the sinks were clogged with sticky pink soap, cigarette butts and miscellaneous biohazards. A decoupage of hair, blood and fecal matter decorated the pea-green walls and the paper towel dispenser. Used condoms squished underfoot and spewed liquefied disease whenever anyone chose to trek across the tile flooring, or attempted to mop up the filth.<p>

In a cold sweat, Emma bustled into the cleanest of the stalls and vomited up chunks of undigested taco meat. She gagged on the foul, gritty taste of the ground beef and felt her tongue burn from an acidic spurt of regurgitated salsa. With the lingering residues in her throat, she hurried back into the kitchen and took the first opportunity to rinse her mouth out with bottled water.

Pete loomed behind the stove, looking fatter than a prize-winning pumpkin in his orange apron. "Hey, Em," he called out. "Ya' feeling okay? The boss man said you bin' puking your guts out."

Without glancing down at the hot surface in front of him, Pete poured batter for pancakes and scraped a heap of crispy bacon onto a plate. "Ya' better watch yourself when he's around, y'know. He'll fire ya'—"

At seventeen years old, Emma lived on a meager salary that allowed her to survive week-to-week on inexpensive fast food and peanut butter sandwiches. Since she was still unable to afford an apartment, she rented a cheap room at a hostel that attracted vagrants, prostitutes and drug dealers. Her only friend had moved away to California, and nearly a month went by before she heard from Jake again—

He came into the diner at five A.M. and ordered a slice of cheesecake topped with strawberries. Drunk and in the company of his rookie trainees, he decided to show off. When she delivered his dessert, he slid his hand up her skirt and chuckled when she dropped a tray piled with breakfast platters. "Oh, honey, what's the matter?" he mused. "Don't be shy." With a smug grin, he gestured to his cohorts and then locked eyes with the young blonde. "Fellas, this here is Emma Swan. Talk nice to her, buy her a drink, and odds are she'll put out for you—"

As Emma wiped the puke from her face and processed Pete's admonitory words of advice, she braced herself against the countertop and thought of Jake. Her stomach churned riotously and she dry heaved as she sank down on the greasy tile floor. "You want a piece of pie?" Pete asked her. "Maybe ya' just need to eat something—"

Emma crumpled into a ball and leaned against a cabinet for support. Dizzy and sickened, she belatedly became aware that her boss was hovering over her with a thin envelope in his hand. "Ms. Swan," he hummed. "We ought to talk—"

.

.

.

.

The convenience store was spray-painted with gang tags and a jumble of words rendered in bubble and block lettering. On the brick wall nearest the main street, someone wrote, "Dead?" in a shade of garish green. A few feet away, the same artist left another message in blue and red graffiti: the word "dead," underlined this time.

Emma slouched against the colorful building and stared down at the pavement. She took off her shoes and inspected the blisters on the soles of her aching feet.

Three months had passed since she was fired from her waitressing position at the diner. Though she spent every day trying to find a new job, no one would hire a young woman who was showing the first visible signs of pregnancy.

Destitute and alone, Emma came to realize what it meant to be desperate.

Her unbearable hunger compelled her to enter the convenience store and wander up and down the aisles. She paused in front of a shelf where boxes of sugarcoated cereal sat beside loaves of white bread. In a moment of impulsive stupidity, she stuffed a package of saltines into her small knapsack. Without considering the potential consequences, she shoved more items into her bag: animal crackers, crunchy peanut butter and a jar of grape jelly.

The proprietor observed the theft from afar, but when Emma headed towards the exit, he grabbed her by the wrist and grappled for her backpack. He dumped the wares out onto the countertop, along with her baby blanket and other worldly possessions. After he rifled through the articles of her clothing, he shrugged her bag over his shoulder and motioned for her to follow him into the storeroom. "You a runaway?" he asked. "You can tell me the truth. I'm not gonna call the cops—"

Emma scrutinized the shopkeeper and reached out to reclaim her knapsack. Defiantly, she ripped the little wool blanket away from him and shoved the keepsake back into her bag. "No," she told him. "I live up the street—"

As he took a measured stride towards Emma and hooked his finger through one of the loops on her pants, his beady eyes swept over the swell of her breasts and down to the tiny bulge of her belly. "You're a bad liar," he huffed. "How old are you? Fifteen?"

Infuriated by his unwanted advances, Emma slapped his hand and pedaled closer to the door. "Let me go," she demanded. "I can pay you. I'll pay you back for everything I took—"

The storeowner raked his stubby fingers through his hair and shed flakes of dandruff onto her black shirt. "You don't have any money," he reminded her. "But there are other ways you can pay—"

He unbuckled her belt and popped his thumb through the buttonhole on her jeans. "Let me have a peek at you," he murmured. "Take off your shirt—"

In her peripheral vision, Emma spotted a baseball bat that was propped up in the dusty corner of the room. Cobwebs clung to the metal slugger, but she lunged for it and swung the weapon at his face.

With quick reflexes, he yanked out a fistful of her curls and tossed them into the air like confetti. As she recoiled and screamed from the shock of pain, he flung the bat under a table and pushed her down onto her knees. "C'mon, you little cocksucker," he grunted. "I know I've seen you walking the boulevard before. I'll give you twice what you normally get. Enough to pay for the abortion—"

Provoked and enraged, Emma toppled the man to the floor and slammed him into cement. "You son of a bitch!" she shrieked. "I'll kill you!"

.

.

.

.

The middle-aged lawyer immediately reminded Emma of a puppet who sang the ABCs on a popular television show for children. A prison guard ushered him into a fenced, outdoor enclosure, and he gawked over at her with googly-eyed interest.

With fuzzy hair the color of carrots, a mouth that he constantly kept agape, and a nose shaped like a big bicycle horn, he seemed prepared to carol a rendition of _Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star_. Instead, he approached her and offered up his business card. "I'm Mr. Erkens," he sputtered. "We need to review the details of your case."

Emma rubbed at her raw, handcuffed wrists and then flattened her hand over her growing midsection. She noticed that her jumpsuit was the same shade as Mr. Erkens' hair, and as she stared down at the gravel underneath her feet, she wondered whether her baby would be a brunette or a blonde.

Mr. Erkens rummaged through a thick folder and marked a series of papers with neon tabs that looked like jagged teeth. "Listen," he requested. "I want to help you, but I'm going to be straightforward. The D.A. is determined to make an example out of you. Our best line of defense is to explore the history of your sexual abuse."

In a state of detachment, Emma laced her fingers through one of the screens that barred the windows at the detention facility. While the lawyer foraged through her personal files, she peered into the recesses of the building. The cold interior contrasted sharply with the sunny landscape that surrounded her.

Frustrated by her prolonged silence, Mr. Erkens paced around and restlessly toyed with the knot on his striped tie. "I need you to focus," he told her. "You're being charged with attempted murder. You destroyed one of Mr. Jenkins' kidneys—"

Indifferent to his appeals, Emma strolled around the yard and squinted up at the clouds that rollicked through the sky. Mr. Erkens trotted along after her and tried to calm his rising agitation. "Look," he barked. "If you want the judge to be lenient, you have to give a full disclosure—"

The lawyer circled the young woman and halted her with his eyes. "The court will also want to hear that you have a plan for your life," he rumbled. "One that doesn't include robbing local convenience stores. What are you going to do with the kid?"

Emma placed a protective hand over her tummy and then turned away from him. "It's a boy," she whispered.

* * *

><p>Adrenaline fed through her veins as she leapt from her Volkswagen and rushed up the slate walkway to the mayor's house. She pounded on the door until Regina appeared, and then shot by the taller woman without so much as a <em>hello<em>. As she barreled through the vestibule and into the dining room, Emma felt like she was outrunning her doubts and fears. "Henry," she shouted.

With a toothy grin, the boy glanced up at his mother and let his spoon sink into the quicksand of his oatmeal. "Emma!" he cheered. "What are you doing here?"

Regina stalked into the room and set her hawkish eyes on Emma, but the blonde took Henry's book bag and smiled weakly. "I'm taking you to school this morning," she told him.

The mayor scoffed at the pronouncement and then turned on Emma with renewed acerbity. "You're not taking him anywhere," she hissed. "You should be down at the station clearing out your desk."

Emma remained self-possessed as she rounded up her son's jacket and scarf. "Take my keys," she instructed Henry. "I'll meet you in the car."

After the boy put on his coat and secured his scarf around his neck, he darted out of the house.

When Henry was gone from view, Emma glared at Regina with a murderous energy in her eyes. "You have no cause to fire me," she spat. "Even if you did, you would need the approval of your board of trustees. Go ahead and bring it up at the next town council meeting."

Regina maintained her composure and her air of superiority. "I will," she remarked. "We're scheduled to meet at the end of the week."

As she adjusted one of her earrings and stared out at the yellow vehicle that was parked in front of her property, the mayor stuck her hand into her pocket and grasped the red kerchief that belonged to Mr. Gold. "Don't worry," she mused. "I'm not doing this just to keep you away from Henry. He'll decide to hate you all on his own—"

Tongue-tied and riled, the sheriff stepped backwards until she stood flush against the wall. "Why—" she breathed. "Why are you determined to make my life hell?"

Regina fastened her fingers around the red silk and balled her fist as she prowled forward to belittle the blonde. "Because everyone deserves to know that you're a piece of trash," she blustered. "Now get out of my home."

The sheriff flinched, but she lingered in the dining room until Regina zipped away into the parlor.

The insult haunted her while she drove Henry to school, but what most resonated with Emma was the thought that her son might someday hate her.

.

.

.

.

After she arrived at the station, Emma listened to the messages recorded on the answering machine and jotted down a list of missing and stolen items. She stared absently at the prison cell and then settled in behind her desk.

With a raffish grin, August sauntered into her cubicle and took the liberty of kicking back in the chair directly across from her. "You know," he mused. "I've seen the seven natural wonders of the world. I've traveled to all fifty of the states. I've visited _twenty-three_ different countries—"

As he paused for dramatic effect, August played with the faded bandana that hung around his throat. "I thought I had seen it all," he told her. "—Until I saw your crazy roommate riding around in the back of a pick-up truck. She was sitting on top of a heap of newspapers. It looked like a parade float—"

Although she outwardly seemed at ease, Emma felt panicked by his intrusion. Her complexion only underwent a subtle alteration as he joked about Mary Margaret. The rosy color drained from her cheeks and left her looking white and sickly. "August," she whispered. "I have work to do—"

He cocked his head to the side and then commandeered her clipboard. "I'll say," he smiled. "Your roommate is a thief."

Emma went over to the coffeemaker and drank a cup of the watered down caffeine. When August sidled up behind her and rested his hand on the flat of her stomach, she closed her eyes and swallowed. "So," he hummed. "My brother is flying out to see me. I called him last week and told him that I was back in the states. I think you should meet him while he's here—"

She breathed through her nose to combat her sudden lightheadedness. Her pulse quickened when he plied his fingers along her back and massaged the kinks out of her shoulders. "Are you busy tonight?" he murmured. "Why don't we do dinner and drinks?"

His gentle ministrations caused her muscles to loosen, but she became nauseated and anxious as soon as his lips ghosted along the nape of her neck. "I—" she stuttered. "I'm supposed to help Mary Margaret. David is moving into an apartment—"

When August perceived her discomfort, he bowed away from her. "Are you okay?" he asked.

Emma felt her knees buckle, but she attached herself to a filing cabinet and pretended to look for a specific folder. "Are _you_ okay?" she parroted him. "You don't have to do this, you know—"

Curious and confused, August let his eyes trail over her face and down to the floor. On any given day, she was like a Cracker Jack box; he never knew what he would get once she opened up to him. "Do what?" he drawled. "Ask you out on a second date? Treat you like a human being?"

After she steadied her shaking arm, Emma tottered around him and glared at the dartboard on the wall. His words affected her posture and her mindset. She took the arrow from the center of the target and then jabbed it back into the cork surface. "Do you know how to do this?" she muttered.

As soon as August confirmed that he did, she asked him, "Will you teach me?"

* * *

><p>The ice looked like rock candy as it melted against the panes of glass on the front of the apartment building. Emma stood underneath the awning and chewed on a spongy chicken salad sandwich while she waited for Mary Margaret and David. She discarded her leftovers in a trash bin and then sipped hot tea from a styrofoam cup.<p>

Two little girls raced home from their school bus and skated towards her. When the younger girl smiled at Emma, she revealed gaps in her teeth. "Who are you?" she cooed. "We're not s'posed to talk to strangers, but I like your hair." After her older sister flicked her ear, the girl waved at the sheriff and scurried into the lobby.

With a bright smile that re-ignited the fire in her eyes, Emma watched as the girls played hopscotch on the tiled floor by the mailroom.

Mr. Gold strutted through the hedges and up the pathway towards Emma. When he came to a standstill, his magpie eyes bore into her and he gnashed his canines together. "To see children enjoying themselves," he mused. "It reminds us that life can't be all that bad—"

His smirk lapsed into a solemn frown and he stared at her, flagrantly covetous of her flesh. "Ms. Swan," he crooned. "Here to help Mr. Nolan, I take it? Come along, my dear. I own the complex. I'll let you inside."

Emma experienced a sensation of intense dread when he produced a key from the inside of his jacket. "I think I'm just going to wait for Mary Margaret," she told him. "She should be here soon—"

"Nonsense," he remarked. "There's no reason to wait out in the cold." The pawnbroker seized Emma by the arm, guided her inside and directed her towards the apartment at the end of the corridor—

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.

.

.

The furnished apartment overlooked a slope where gnarled trees hunched forward like old men. A silkscreen separated the kitchenette from the living room, but there was a private bedroom and two full baths. Emma toured the space, pausing in front of a window that gave a panoramic view of the forest. Mr. Gold observed her with rapt interest, as if she was an exotic creature that belonged in that woodland setting.

While she admired the landscape, he coaxed her into drinking an elixir that left her lips redder than a juicy pomegranate. He twirled one of her ringlets around his forefinger and then kissed her tart mouth. "My precious darling," he intoned. "I love that you are a spitfire, but it is much easier when you obey me."

Emma stared at his aquiline nose and his eyes that shifted from her face to her neck while he spoke to her. "You were the one who gave Regina the copies of my records," she murmured. "I saw them—in your room."

Mr. Gold caressed her cheek and dabbed at her chin with a napkin. "Thankfully you won't remember all of that," he mused. "Finish your drink, dearie."

Emma gulped the remainder of the poison and then coiled herself into a defensive, fetal ball. The sound of her hitching breaths aroused him, and he pressed her face into the cold floor while he patiently undressed her. "You were supposed to bring me the book," he lilted. "Where is it?"

Her eyes strayed towards the door while he palmed her nude backside and dipped his fingers into her abused core. He spread her folds with his thumb and paved a slippery runway for his turgid cock. "I don't know," she muttered.

His bulge poked at her bottom, but her positioning hindered his movements. He turned her around and gripped her by the ankles while he oiled her slit with a smooth, aqueous substance. "Pretty child," he praised her. "Sweet lamb."

Emma grunted when he pushed the tip of his prick into her. "Tomorrow," he purred. "Be a good girl and bring me the book."

As he began slow strokes inside of her, she felt herself reduced to her basest animal instincts. He took hold of her sculpted ass and rutted her pulsating sex with forceful, deep thrusts. "Mm, yes, love. It's feels much nicer when your body wants it," he groaned. "Don't you agree?"

She clutched his cane to endure the brunt of his motions and her back curved like a strung bow. Her flowing liquids coated her thighs and the muscles in her belly tightened as she listened to the wet, slapping noises that came from the gushing piston between her legs. "Moan for me," he encouraged her.

The veins in her forehead became more pronounced and her skin flushed scarlet from the violent exertions.

Emma moaned as he drove himself into the depths of her hot canal and fondled the exposed nub above that full hole. The combined pleasure and pain caused her to scream, and as she strained her vocal chords, he shot blazing seeds into her dripping, pink passage.

He used a kerchief to clean her and then helped her with her clothes. "My lovely pet," he sang. "There we are."

When he left her, she looked presentable and untouched.

* * *

><p>Mary Margaret lugged a box containing a variety of objects that David must have haphazardly packed. As she peeked into the open cardboard flaps, she spotted footwear, ski goggles, a knife, two hats and his shaving kit. While he held the door for her and balanced a yellow kayak on his shoulder, she decided that she would assign him simple tasks and take charge of organizing his apartment. "I told Emma to meet us here. I don't want her to be alone," she told him. "In fact, that's an understatement. I don't want to let her out of my sight—"<p>

They stood in the lobby of the complex while David searched for his keys. "How is she doing?" he asked.

In doubt over her ability to answer that question, Mary Margaret stared down at her suede boots. "She just wants to protect Henry," she sighed. "She's worried about losing her job, but she's more worried about losing him. Regina is a witch. I don't understand how she believes that Emma is to blame for the lifelong abuse—"

After David fit the key into the lock, he held the door for Mary Margaret and then flipped on the light switches in the foyer. When he proceeded into the living room, he found the blonde huddled on a sofa that was still draped over with a plastic casing. "Emma?" he balked. "Did Mr. Gold let you inside? He was supposed to come by and drop off a spare key—"

Mary Margaret placed the box beside Emma and examined her silhouette in the early evening twilight. "Why are you sitting in the dark?" she whispered.

Emma sagged against the couch cushions and the translucent covering crackled under her legs. Her mouth twisted up like a red twizzler. "I just—have a headache," she murmured. "I was going to take a nap while I waited for you. What took you guys so long to get here, anyway?"

David turned on a floor lamp and positioned his kayak in a corner of the room. "I got held up at the animal shelter," he told her. "Do you want some aspirin?"

Mary Margaret fished around in her purse until she located a capsule of Tylenol. She eyeballed the empty glass on the coffee table and went into the kitchen to fill it with water from the tap. When she returned, Emma eagerly swallowed the pain reliever and then started for the door.

With an animatronic hand movement, Emma plucked up the key to David's truck. "I'll unload while you unpack," she offered. Before Mary Margaret could negotiate, the blonde darted outside and began hauling in boxes of clothing, tools and silverware. After she finished with the self-assigned task, she observed while her roommate sifted through the assorted artifacts from David's life with Kathryn.

When Mary Margaret came across a filigree pendant, she cupped it in her palm and wondered if it belonged to the former Mrs. Nolan. David stepped up behind her and strung the necklace around the ivory column of her throat. "My mother wore this," he explained. "I think—I've wanted to give it to you for a long time."

Mary Margaret allowed her insecurities to founder and her hope to sail buoyantly on the bright emerald seas of her eyes. "It's beautiful," she murmured. "Thank you."

David took the risk and leaned in to kiss her, and their mouths fused together from the scorching heat supplied by their questing tongues.

From where she stood trapped behind a wall of boxes, Emma could only gawk at the couple and blink. "I'm in the room," she reminded them.

As Mary Margaret separated from David, she blushed and self-consciously wiped at the gloss that had transferred onto his bottom lip. With a sheepish smile, David announced that he planned to pick up a pizza and ducked out into the hall.

While Mary Margaret arranged his clothing in the closet, Emma plugged his television into the cable jack and installed herself on the couch. When David reappeared, he joined the sheriff and they both watched a documentary about tiger sharks. Emma masked her discomfort when he retrieved a chenille blanket and handed it to her, but her anxiety subsided after Mary Margaret plopped down between them. They all ate slices of pepperoni pizza and drank cola from a mismatched set of mugs that David uncovered in a box with his hunting jacket.

Emma removed the pepperoni from her slice and folded it in half before taking a bite. "I appreciate what you both did for me," she muttered. "I—spoke to someone at the newspaper this afternoon and he told me that they won't re-run the exposé. Apparently a senior member of their staff questioned the legality of publishing the article and they've decided not to press charges or hold anyone accountable for the theft—"

As Emma broached the subject that she seemed to be tacitly avoiding, subtle lines of tension emerged on her forehead and the tiny cleft along her chin became more noticeable. Mary Margaret gave her a paper napkin and a tender smile. "We were happy to help," she assured her.

* * *

><p>Later that night, Mary Margaret pored over the newspaper article while Emma took a bubble bath. When she heard the sound of the blow drier, she put the paper aside and busied herself by changing her sheets and turning down her bed.<p>

Unbeknownst to the blonde, David volunteered to incinerate the other copies of _The Daily Mirror_, and had spent the better part of his morning at the town dump. Mary Margaret forgot to give him the issue that she began reading when the sheriff departed for work. Her curiosity no longer motivated her to delve into the Emma's personal history. Instead, she felt a compulsion to review the article because she experienced an awful pang of guilt whenever she tried to piece together a chronology of Emma's childhood.

While Emma lingered in the bathroom, Mary Margaret scooped up the paper and resumed her study of the article. Mesmerized by the photo, she failed to notice when her roommate strolled up behind her.

Emma sprawled across the bed and punched a feather pillow until it became fluffy and plump. She behaved as if the newspaper was invisible and went through her normal evening routine. After she turned off the lamp and nestled under the comforter, she rolled on her side and shut her eyes. Mary Margaret could only detect her distress because of the way she habitually ran her fingertips over the decorative squiggles on the blanket. The brunette stretched out beside her and peered at the outline of her face in the darkness. "When did it start?" she whispered.

When Emma curled her legs and her breathing patterns changed, Mary Margaret knew that she had understood the question. "Around the time that I learned how to tie my own shoes," she replied. Her voice warbled with emotion, but she lacked the capacity to cry.

Mary Margaret felt etherized by the answer, but the profound pain in her heart roused her from the bed. "You were just a baby," she wept. "How could anyone do that to a baby? Oh, Emma. How could anyone do that to you?"

* * *

><p>Cirrus clouds stretched thin over the sky and Baelfire shaded his eyes while he gazed up at them. With his father's walking stick in his hand, the boy raced through the fields towards his home. As he approached the thatched cottage, he saw a puffing trail of smoke rising from the chimney and knew that his dinner could be found simmering in a pot over the fireplace.<p>

The child looked like jack o' lantern with missing teeth and glowing eyes. He scampered into the house and pounced on his father, who was hunched over a loom with a bundle of gray thread at his feet. His mother took a ladle and dumped stew into a bowl for her husband and her son, and as they all sat around the table to partake of the meal, the boy leaned forward to convey what he had heard at the market. "The tide of the battle has changed," he prattled. "We might be able to leave this land. The soldiers are clearing a path between the mountains."

Rumpelstiltskin glared mirthlessly at the candlesticks along the wall and then over at his wife. As soon as his son gobbled down his carrots and scurried outside to remove their laundry from the clothesline, he stood up from his seat and shifted his weight onto his strong leg. He crossed the floor and knelt next to Rapunzel with desperation in his eyes. "Love," he pleaded. "You almost died when Bae was born. Now is not the time to think of having another child—"

Rapunzel launched herself up from her bench and towered over him. "Surely you have heard the rumors," she insisted. "The war will end. We can leave this place—"

Frustrated by the futility of arguing with her, Rumpelstiltskin slapped his hand against the table and got to his feet. "I do not want another child," he told her. "I love our son, but we can scarcely afford to feed him! The ogres still block our safe passage to the kingdoms in the east. There are no supplies—"

With the shadow of hatred in her eyes, Rapunzel knocked a candle onto the floor and watched as a blaze lit up the hay that was strewn across the room. Rumpelstiltskin doused the fire with a bucket of water and then whirled towards the door with the intention of leaving. "I am expecting another child," she hissed at him. "At the end of the August month—"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: Mary Margaret staged a mutiny and decided to go newspaper snatching all on her own. I'm still not sure how that happened, because that wasn't apart of my original plan for this chapter; nevertheless, I was pretty happy about it because it allowed me to give Granny a cool handgun.

As for Gold—I just don't know what to say about him anymore. I went back to watch a lot of the scenes in which he and Emma interact, and there's this certain way he looks at her that makes me think he's capable of all of this. When I originally came up with the idea for this story, my intention was merely to have him manipulate her.

**Thank you** to everyone who added me to their alerts and favorite story lists. Any/all feedback is appreciated!

**Lonewolf3676**: So glad you weren't disappointed by how MM figured it out. I know I promised big drama for when MM found out about Emma's abuse, but that won't unfold until she actually knows that Emma is her daughter.

Emma and MM are both in a constant state of distress. It's really tiring to write them this way, so I'm looking forward to when my masterful plot will come together and they can fight back. Right now they're pretty defeated.

Regina isn't at all happy with Emma's past, but that still won't stop her from using the information against her. There's a reason that she does it, though—she's not just being cruel.

It's awesome that you didn't think the baby blanket idea was lame. I wanted that particular scene to be much better. The FTW scenes keep getting cheapened because they're the last part I write before posting. I should probably start writing them at the beginning.

**Kendra Luehr**: I'm so happy you like the metaphors/similes. I was an English major, too. ;) I'm trying to make my updates more frequent, but it took me forever to write this chapter.


	15. Child

**Wanted to put an author's note here, in response to a review I received, so I can clear things up for everyone who happened to be confused:**

**Regina and Snow are NOT**** related in this story. Regina is under the impression that they are, when in fact they are NOT. Rapunzel never made it to Leopold's kingdom. Instead, she ended up with Rumpelstiltskin. Regina's whole reason for wanting revenge is based on a false assumption. How awful for her. **

**It's safer if you don't make any assumptions about the story, but rather piece events together as more information is presented. I have a lot of twists and turns planned, and unless I include a scene that specifically shows a character giving birth to another character, don't presume they are related, in spite of what they say. **

**There are no incestuous relationships in this story. **

* * *

><p><strong>This is my version of events RE: the breaking of the curse.<strong>

**Please do read the author's note at the end of the chapter.  
><strong>

**WARNINGS**: Graphic violence. Sexual violence.

* * *

><p>Storm clouds gathered in the distance and struck tridents of lightning against the glassy surface of the ocean. Waves battered the prow of the ship and rocked against the figurehead until her carven breasts dripped with sea foam. The skies blackened and rumbled as a gust of wind buffeted the sail.<p>

Prince Charming rushed onto the deck and peered through the lens of his telescope. As he stood in the breeze, his shirt flapped around his shoulders and beat against his proud chest. His company of soldiers circled around him and looked through their own spyglasses to get a glimpse of the warship that pursued their vessel into troubled waters.

Rumpelstiltskin rollicked around the men and plied his fingers over his silken, frilly collar. His shackles bit into his wrists as he attempted a flourishing hand gesture. "The baucans!" he snickered. "How unex_pect_ed!"

The soldiers gawked at their puckish prisoner while he skipped around them with the jerky, ill-timed movements of a marionette puppet.

Grumpy glowered at Rumpelstiltskin and drew his rough-edged weapon from where it hung at his side. "The ship flies the red flag," he explained. "King George is challenging you."

James snarled as flaming arrows hit the topsail and his soldiers scrambled to douse the blaze. He gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles whitened and cracked. "Red," he huffed. "He calls for a fight to the death—"

Snow emerged from within the hold, and as she approached her husband, the flower petals that were nested in her hair took flight around her face. Her dress concealed the swell of her midsection, but her hand strayed towards her belly and settled over the bump in the loose fitting, lacy fabric.

Rumpelstiltskin sidled up between the happy couple and grinned like a buffoon as his eyes swung pendulously between Snow and Prince Charming. "I can grant you safe passage," he crowed. "For a price, of course."

A booming clap of thunder set the crew in motion, and they bustled around on deck, securing the lines and battening the hatches that enclosed their wares. The soldiers dispersed to collect their blades and axes, and when they reappeared, each man was outfitted in a plate helm and chainmail vest. Charming knew that his captain could safely guide the ship along the periphery of the storm, but King George posed more of a threat than a hurricane. As Rumpelstiltskin offered him immunity to natural and manmade disasters, James squandered no time in accepting his proposition. "I will give you what you desire," he promised. "But you cannot ask me for your freedom."

With a giddy laugh and a stomp of his foot, Rumpelstiltskin banged his manacles together like tambourines and startled Snow into abeyance. Her stomach lurched with the ship and she could only vomit her protest onto the shiny buckles that adorned his shoes.

Rumpelstiltskin pranced around the foolish prince who indebted himself without first inquiring about the details of the little transaction. "Oh, I should really charge you extra for that," he sang. "But all I require is the shirt off your back."

In keeping with the agreement, James shed his tunic and handed it over to the imp. Confident in the knowledge that Rumpelstiltskin never failed to fulfill his contracts, he left his men to their duties and pulled Snow into the cabin. He sheltered her in his arms and comforted her as she dry heaved and gasped. "Our son will be a great fighter," he whispered. "I can feel him kicking—"

Snow rested her head against his sturdy shoulder and sucked in a deep breath as the rosiness waned from her cheeks. "Just like his father," she exhaled.

Grumpy tromped over to the couple and cleared his throat to announce his presence. He wore a faceguard and a suit of armor that was handcrafted to accommodate the proportions of his stocky body. "We are still being pursued," he informed them. "The Sunder galley is gaining on us. There is no way we will outpace King George—"

When he processed the report, James parted from Snow and snorted like a horse on the verge of accelerating into a crazed, breakneck gallop. He charged out on the upper deck and seized Rumpelstiltskin by his ruffled cravat. "I thought you said that you could grant us safe passage!" he shouted.

Rumpelstiltskin clucked at the display of aggression and disentangled himself from James. "You must have misunderstood," he tittered. "I said that I could grant _you_ safe passage."

As Rumpelstiltskin pointed out the damning technicality, James controlled the urge to lop off one or both of his arms. "Tell me what you want," he hissed.

While Rumpelstiltskin paused to reconsider the terms of their arrangement, his owlish eyes shifted towards Snow and skipped up to the heavens. "If only it was that simple," he mused. "Men _will_ die here today, but perhaps I can limit the number of casualties. We wouldn't want your precious Snow to get caught in the crossfire, now would we?"

Snow snatched a pickaxe from Grumpy and pressed the tip of the blade against the pulsating artery in Rumpelstiltskin's neck. "I'm not going to bargain with you," she spat.

Rumpelstiltskin scraped his skin along the dull side of the axe as casually as if he intended to give himself a close shave. "Nothing is more dangerous than a mother protecting her child," he remarked. "How far along are you, dearie?"

Her reluctance to respond demonstrated that his premonitions were indeed accurate.

As Snow lowered her arm, James intervened and returned the weapon to Grumpy. The disgruntled dwarf swung the axe over his shoulder and scowled.

Invigorated by his ability to unnerve the young mother-to-be, Rumpelstiltskin clicked his heels together and placed a hand across his heart. "I want your nightmares," he trilled. "Your shattered hopes and dreams."

James strode forward to shield Snow from the maniacal sprite. "Take them," he acquiesced. "Either way, you're going to spend the rest of your life rotting in prison—"

Rumpelstiltskin extended his wrists and allowed James to temporarily relieve him of the enchanted shackles. "I am borne along like a ship without a sailor," he sang. "Just as a wandering bird is carried along paths of air. Chains do not keep me, nor does a key—"

As Rumpelstiltskin persisted in muttering gibberish, James felt his eyelids become laden with the enticement to sleep. While the prince blinked to ward off the urge, Grumpy stepped in and once again fastened the chains around Rumpelstiltskin's gamesome hands.

Rumpelstiltskin skittered away from the dwarf and snagged the thick rope that dangled from the crow's nest. He ascended the braided ladder and let his crinkly hair flail wildly around his face. "Sail into the storm!" he barked.

After James gave him the signal, the captain obeyed the order and called out to the crew to adjust their course. When the ship passed into the sunless reaches of ocean, the war vessel launched heavy barrels onto their decks. Grizzled rats burst forth from the wooden tubs and swarmed around the ankles of the soldiers.

The rodents transformed into a legion of knights and ambushed the unsuspecting battalion just as waves crashed against the hull.

Bodies thumped against the floorboards and heads rolled from stern to bow. A soldier with stumpy arms screamed piteously as a knight sliced his gut into a slab of bloody meat and tore out his vital organs.

The captain slumped forward as a sweat-drenched warrior severed his neck, and then gouged his eyes until a gelatinous goop trickled down his nose and into his gaping mouth.

Grumpy disarmed an inexperienced knight and interrogated him while James fended off an attack from a burly combatant. "Snow," the dwarf grunted. "_She_ is with King George. The Evil Q—"

In a whirlwind of dust and havoc, the wicked queen appeared beside the slain captain. Her hair looped around her throat like a decaying vine and she smacked her scarlet lips together as she encroached upon Snow White.

Prince Charming interposed himself between the two women and aimed his sword at Regina. "You can't hurt us," he reminded her. "Your threats are idle and empty."

Snow braced herself against James and swallowed her apprehension. "It is not your fate to kill me," she told the queen.

With the patience of a calculating predator, Regina paced in front of the couple and smiled coyly. "Oh, but I _can _kill the child that is growing inside of you," she purred. "One way or another, I will destroy your family."

* * *

><p>The butterflies resembled ladies in ball gowns as they curtsied and kissed the flowers that grew in the wild grove beyond the boundaries of the kingdom. Prince Charming plucked a pink lily from the rich earth and twirled the blossom by its stem as he paced in the shade of a willow tree.<p>

When the sun ascended the golden staircase in the sky, he removed his vest and knelt beside a brook to drink from the bubbling waters. In the reflection of the pool, he divined the image of the notorious trickster and spun around to meet him. "Rumpelstiltskin," he muttered. "You are late—"

Rumpelstiltskin bowed for the prince, but his gesture was a condescending mockery of the royal customs rather than a show of his humble servitude. "Eager, aren't we?" he chortled. "I suppose it wouldn't do to keep your sweetheart waiting. "

James took his bronze inkwell from the inside of his rucksack and offered it to Rumpelstiltskin. "Take it," he demanded. "I will pay any price to ensure that Snow is safe from the Queen—"

After he accepted the bounty from James, the imp clapped his hands together and grinned ghoulishly as he capered along the banks of the creek. "Oh, the queen will not be able to kill her," he assured him. "Your dearest Snow will live a very _long_ life—"

While the imp paraded around and percussed the air as though he was playing an invisible instrument, James stared at the ink and wondered how it might yet be used. He remembered that Heinrich had warned him of the dangers of the substance, but as far as he knew, it was only suitable for writing stories. "I want to put her mind at ease," he admitted. "I am sure you have already heard the news. We are to be married—"

Rumpelstiltskin clutched his prize in a tightly clamped fist and cooed triumphantly.

It was the last item that the demon needed to create his spell — the dark curse that would grant the Queen authorship over their future. "Yes," he replied. "_Congratulations_."

* * *

><p>Raindrops pattered against the soil and caused the spring daffodils to slump forward like a row of sad little children in their bright yellow slickers. Emma splashed around in the mud puddles until her sneakers squelched and her coveralls chafed her skinny legs. She looked disreputable when she scampered up the path in front of the group home, stopping only to tie her loose shoelaces and to poke at the earthworms that crawled across the wet pavement.<p>

The potted tulips sprouted buds redder than blood and bloomed with all the beauty of girls on the cusp of womanhood. Emma yanked the flowers up by their roots and threw them into the gutter. She lingered on the porch until Ms. Lusk came to the doorway and ushered her into an office that was cluttered with boxes and broken toys.

The room smelled of hairspray fumes, jelly doughnuts and menthol cigarettes. A tin of shortbread cookies sat open on the desk, alongside a cluster of jars that contained pushpins and thumbtacks. Outdated calendars hung on the wall above the heating unit, marked with old therapy appointments and schedules.

Ms. Lusk plopped down on her rolling chair, wheeled across the floor and set her piggy eyes on Emma. She wore a smock that boasted a floral pattern and brown leggings that fit snugly on her fat thighs and calves. When she offered Emma a cookie, she took two for herself and spewed crumbs in every direction while she chatted with her. "Honey," she huffed. "Why you bin' ripping up my flowers again? You gunna tell me what's wrong?"

Emma slouched on a stool and hugged her backpack to her chest. She sucked on the cookie and breathed through her nostrils while it disintegrated in her mouth. Her ruffled hair was an ever-present reminder of her recalcitrance, but her contentious frown reaffirmed her abiding unwillingness to cooperate with her caretaker. "No," she whispered. "Can I go?"

Ms. Lusk scooted behind her desk and fished around in the bottom drawer. Her skin had the same qualities as a painter's tarp; it was splattered with misshapen freckles and rippled from years of drudgework. She located a small, pink package and gave it to Emma. "Here you go, baby," she sighed. "You don't have to be ashamed."

Emma hesitated before accepting the package and tucking it away in her bag. As soon as Ms. Lusk released her, she dashed down the hall to the room that she shared with three older girls. Yolanda and Raquel were stretched out on their beds with bottles of nail polish and their collection of magazines. Neither of them acknowledged her as she flopped down on her mattress and dug around in her backpack. She found the novel that she borrowed from the school library and kicked off her muddy sneakers.

As Emma flipped through her book and scanned the final pages of chapter three, Raquel skipped over to her bed and held up a fine-toothed comb. "You got knots in your hair," she told her. "Ms. Janie is gunna make you cut it off—"

In the company of the graceful older girls, Emma looked misplaced and surly. Raquel was a flake of mocha in her short skirts and high-tops. Yolanda rolled her hips and moved with the surefooted steps of a dancer whenever she strutted across a room. "Don'-a-worry, cielito," she consoled her. "We are not go-ing to let that happen. We can fix it."

Emma dropped the novel and sat cross-legged in front of the teenagers while they took liberties with styling her hair and scraping the dirt from under her nails. "Such long blonde hair, such blue eyes," Raquel clucked at her. "Que linda sirenita. You ever let a boy touch you?"

Yolanda selected a cherry red polish and brushed it over the stubs of her fingers while Raquel plaited her hair into two long pigtails. "Muy joven," she insisted. "She's-a too young."

After the coat of polish dried, Emma began to chew her cuticles and fidget. Raquel applied sticky pink gloss over her chapped lips, but she wiped it off on her sleeve and wiggled away from the older girls. "_Stop_," she whined.

.

.

Emma mouthed the words 'stop it' as Mr. Gold shoved her face into the mess of her own vomit.

He glared at her with crocodile eyes and sneered at the paperback novel she gave him as a substitute for the storybook. "_What_ is _this _trash?" he growled at her. "_This_ is _not _what I requested—"

Her blurry vision prevented her from descrying the title of the book, but she recognized it as the worn copy of _Anna Karenina _that Mary Margaret kept on the shelf in her bedroom. "Henry," Emma asserted. "The storybook belongs to Henry."

Mr. Gold pushed her onto her side and her blonde curls spilled down her naked back. His eyes shimmered like drops of black oil as he changed the sheets and dragged a sheepskin blanket over her prone body.

He lit the wick of a tall candle and let the flame graze his fingertips. The scent of sandalwood mingled with the musk of their sex as he hobbled across the room. "That book means a great deal to your boy," he muttered. "We'll let him hang on to it. For now."

Emma gawked at him in slack jawed confusion when he seated himself beside her. "My shirt," she mumbled. "Where is my shirt?"

She fit her fingertips into the rough grooves that framed his mouth and absently ran her thumb over the sandpapery bristles on his chin. Her forehead burned with fever and she breathed with the shallow pants of a sick child. "I feel dizzy," she whispered.

Mr. Gold kissed her heavy, drooping lashes and draped an arm around her waist.

His face looked like a rutted beach cleansed by the crystal waters of a tide; his hard lines and wrinkles became smooth as he listened to the strained sounds of her wheezing. "Close your eyes," he pressed. "Please, darling. Close your eyes."

As though playing a game of connect-the-dots, he traced the dusting of tiny freckles on the bridge of her nose, and then trailed his fingers down to the beauty mark above her breast. His mouth preyed on the rosy peaks of her nipples while he rubbed her through the sheer fabric of her lingerie. He swept his hand along the hourglass curvature of her hipbone and drew her nearer to him.

When her eyes whirled backwards in their sockets, he tugged her panties aside and slid the bulbous tip of his cock along her tenderized skin. Her innards were still flooded with his milky fluids, and as he thrust into her, he immersed himself in the liquid pleasure, the sensual silkiness of her complete vulnerability.

.

.

As she shot up from the bed, Emma bumped into the nightstand and knocked the geometrical alarm clock onto the floor. Bits and bobs sprang out of the timepiece and scattered in a colorful array of iridescent glass and metal.

Stirred awake by the clatter and the sound of muffled cries, Mary Margaret rose to her feet and followed the blonde as she scuttled across the room. "Emma?" she sputtered.

Frantic and flustered from her nightmare, Emma took no notice of the brunette as she ripped apart the shelf and recovered the Russian novel. She ruined the binding as she riffled through the pages and then let the book plummet like a bird pierced by an arrow in midflight.

Mary Margaret became fraught with worry as she watched Emma tear up the copy of _Anna Karenina._ Her concern escalated as her roommate sank down in the wreckage of the home library and sobbed. Amidst the leather bound editions of the classics, she held on to her friend and listened to the rasping intake of her breath.

Emma looked frail and washed out in the rays of winter sunlight that streamed through the bedroom window. Her skin seemed as delicate and translucent as a paper lantern. "I'm sorry about the mess," she murmured. "I'll clean it up—"

Mary Margaret tipped her head to the side and her eyes softened with pity. "I'll take care of it," she whispered. "Why don't you go take a warm bath?"

At a slow but deliberate speed, Emma put the books in order and then picked up the tattered novel. She handed it to Mary Margaret before hurrying into the kitchen to retrieve the dustpan. After she scooped up the remnants of the alarm clock and dumped them into a silver pail, she went into the bathroom and filled the tub with fragrant vanilla suds and salts.

In awed silence, Mary Margaret tidied the bed and determined that she would not voice her observations and judgments unless Emma volunteered to discuss the recurrent night terrors.

As soon as Emma emerged from the bathroom, she vanished up the stairs to the loft. Mary Margaret took her turn to groom herself and then tapped on Emma's door. "I'm meeting David at Granny's," she told her. "Would you like to join us?"

In her pink sweater and high-waisted pencil skirt, Mary Margaret reminded Emma of her own first grade teacher. She remembered how Mrs. Hummel coaxed her into coloring or playing 'nicely' with the other children simply by asking her to 'join' them. "Something tells me I don't have a choice," she ventured.

Mary Margaret leaned into the doorframe and addressed her in a stern but solicitous tone. "You don't," she remarked. "Get your coat?"

Emma considered arguing with Mary Margaret, but she bit down on her lower lip to stopper a potential outpouring of hostility. Without warning, her eyes welled up with tears and she avoided answering her roommate until after the tension subsided from her throat. "Hey," she spoke quietly. "Go and spend some time with David, okay? You don't have to worry about me."

Mary Margaret felt her tongue go dry and stick to the roof of her mouth as she disputed with the blonde. "Yes, I _do_," she insisted. "I care about you. I know you don't want to seem vulnerable, Emma. I'm sure that feels like an awful risk—"

Emma strolled from the closet to her bureau and pulled a turtleneck on over her thin t-shirt. Her ribcage rose and fell rapidly as Mary Margaret reached out to fix her tousled hair. "It doesn't," she countered. "I trust you."

Before Emma felt the impulse to amend her hasty admission, Mary Margaret smiled and drifted nearer to her. "You do?" she gushed.

"I feel comfortable with you," Emma spluttered. "You know what I mean." She fiddled with her tiny hoop earrings and risked a fleeting glance at the brunette.

Mary Margaret went over to the closet and selected one of Emma's warmest jackets. She chose an insulated leather coat and removed it from the hanger. "You trust me," she chirped happily.

.

.

Emma sank against the red vinyl booth and sipped her cocoa while she stared at the empty gumball machines in the corner of the diner. As she wiped frothy whipped cream from her bottom lip, she came to the realization that she was tuning out the conversation. From the way that Mary Margaret and David were poised in their seats, she could tell that one of them had asked her a question.

"Uhm," Emma murmured. "I've been investigating those thefts that I told you about—" With her fork and knife, she poked at her stack of pancakes until it appeared that Mary Margaret was conspiring to take them away from her.

As Emma butchered her breakfast, Mary Margaret suppressed the urge to snatch the plate and cut her pancakes into bite-sized pieces. She wondered who taught her to hold her fork at such an awkward angle until she glanced at David and saw that he also wielded his utensils as though they were weapons. Rather than get sidetracked by that thought, she turned her attention back to Emma and folded her hands in her lap. "It seems strange," she mused. "Who would go through all of that trouble just to steal a bunch of junk?"

Emma propped her elbow on the table as she bent forward and gave Mary Margaret a playful smile. "Well," she teased. "You did steal over seven hundred newspapers less than twenty-four hours ago."

David shoveled eggs into his mouth and gulped down his orange juice. His eyes wandered to the door just as Mr. Booth entered with his brother in tow.

When August spotted Emma, he led Jake towards her table and gestured to her as if he was calling attention to a finer feature in the landscape. "Sheriff Swan," he chimed. "This is my brother—"

Jake indicated for him to halt his introductions as he and Emma mutely exchanged greetings by glaring bitterly at each other. "We're acquainted," he muttered. "We've known each other for a long time, in fact."

After the passing of ten years, Jake still appreciated the contours of her body and the tangle of her fair, sun kissed hair. She retained her allure and natural charisma, but he sensed the taint of his father's dark influence in her eyes. "It's a small world," he observed. "Isn't it, kiddo?"

Emma grated her teeth together and seethed under his scrutiny. Her shoulders stiffened as he called her _kiddo _and examined her as though she was a rack of sweets at a candy store. She grabbed her keys and headed for the exit, but he chased her down and loitered on the sidewalk while she unlocked her trunk. "I didn't come here to see my brother," he admitted. "I came to see you. I knew you would find your—"

Jake quieted as Emma slammed the hatch on the Volkswagen. "I want you to stay away from Henry," she blustered. "Please—"

As his eyebrows twitched inward and his expression evolved into a baffled frown, Emma rebuked herself for presupposing that he knew about their son. "I have to go," she whispered.

Mary Margaret hovered by the outdoor picnic tables until Emma ducked into her car. August approached his brother, but the whir of her motor overpowered the sound of their voices.

While Emma peered into the rearview mirror, her roommate hopped into the passenger side of the Bug and secured her seatbelt.

Sleet coated the streets in a glistening sheet of ice as Emma drove across town.

"That was Jake," she muttered. "I have to tell Henry the truth. Do you think – do you think that he'll forgive me_?_"

.

.

The mayor's property was bordered on all sides by hedges that looked like puffy marshmallows underneath the powdery snow. Emma left a trail of footprints behind her as she passed through the shrubbery and marched up the path. Her spiking temperature brought a reddish glow to her cheeks, and she broke into a chilled sweat when she came to a standstill in front of the door.

In her designer label suit and stiletto boots, Regina stood as an imposing obstacle between Emma and her son.

Regina reveled in the sight of her ailing adversary and felt a rush of satisfaction when she discerned the visible signs of her suffering. "Ms. Swan," she snorted. "Already in violation of your restraining order, I see."

With her hands tucked against her sides, Emma assumed a more intimidating stance and strode forward to spar with Regina. "What?" she balked. "You have to take me to court to get a restraining order—"

Regina wore burgundy lipstick and sooty shadows that drew attention to the hatred in her eyes. "My lawyer was supposed to contact you yesterday," she mused. "I guess he's been too busy to formally serve you with the papers. I'll have him fax you a copy of the documents, if you'd like, or maybe you can just pick them up—"

Emma detected an insinuating undertone in Regina's voice as she pronounced the word _busy_. "Your lawyer?" she breathed.

The mayor studied the sheriff with renewed interest. "Mr. Gold," she clarified. "Surely you know that he handles all of my legal matters. Given your recent involvement with him, I figured the two of you had worked out some sort of arrangement—"

Emma remained strong and unyielding before her enemy, but her vision swam when Regina mentioned Mr. Gold. Colors swirled and blended in front of her like paint on an artist's palate. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she murmured. "Please—let me speak to Henry."

Before Regina could deny the request, Henry squeezed by her and flung himself down the front steps. "What's wrong?" he asked Emma. "Why do you look so upset?"

When he looped his arms around her waist and tried to comfort her, Emma met his eyes and exhaled. "I lied to you about your father," she confessed. "He would have wanted to keep you. I never told him—"

Henry took a stumbling step backwards and quieted her with his critical frown. He gave her the look he reserved for steamed cabbage, math homework and the Evil Queen. "You—lied," he mumbled. "You lied to me _again._"

As her son withdrew from her and retreated into the house, Emma felt her face flush with heat and her head begin to throb. "Henry," she begged. "Wait—"

Regina regarded her with callous indifference. "Maybe I didn't need that restraining order after all," she snickered.

Stoked into a rage by her snide remark, Emma stomped the slush underneath her boots and glared at the mayor with menacing intensity. "Oh, you need it," she asserted. "Henry might be angry at me right now, but he _hates_ living here with you—"

In a whirling flurry of wind, Regina flew at her and forced her to fall back. "So, this is war, is it?" she snarled. "You should know I'm ready to engage in a custody battle with you, or whatever other type of battle you would prefer—"

Emma stood her ground as Regina gripped her by the elbow and tried to browbeat her into submission. "Are you sure you're ready?" she fumed.

Regina crushed her arm to convey her certainty. "You think you've already won because you have Mr. Gold on your side, but he can't protect anyone from me," she spat.

As her fingers went numb from lack of circulation, Emma stared up at the taller woman in open-mouthed incredulity. "What makes you think that Gold is on my side?" she asked. "He's your lawyer."

With a chortling laugh, Regina released her wrist and sought to shame her. "I know that playing stupid isn't any great effort for you, dear," she hissed. "But honestly, with the way you've been spreading your legs for him, it's only natural for me to assume that he'll support you—"

Emma registered the accusation, and her mind reawakened from its dormant, spellbound stupor.

Placated by the sheriff's silence, Regina paced over the threshold and smiled. "By the way," she purred. "I arranged for the council to meet _tonight_. We'll be gathering at the local abbey at six o'clock. It seems our town hall isn't big enough to accommodate the crowd we're expecting. People are rather interested in hearing about the charges for your dismissal. You're certainly welcome to attend—"

* * *

><p>In a shower of red and blue glass, Emma smashed through the front door of the mansion and stalked into the parlor. Her dreams seeped into her waking reality and stained her mind with vivid images of her violation. She saw herself crawling on her belly, whimpering in her misery as Mr. Gold hollowed her out and then filled her with thick ropes of his filth.<p>

With her gun raised in front of her, she roamed through the residence in search of the pawnbroker.

Mary Margaret hurried after her, but paused by the fireplace when her eyes settled on a familiar necklace. She cupped the chain in the palm of her hand and inspected the silver medallion. "This is yours," she whispered. "What did he do to you, Emma? What do you remember?"

As she rummaged through an assortment of bottles, Emma perspired through her undershirt and the outer layers of her clothing. "I can't think," she muttered.

Emma shuttled up the staircase, but the splitting pain in the base of her skull brought her to a stop outside of the master suite. She coughed until she shed tears, but Mary Margaret placed a hand on her heaving back and the gentle contact calmed her nerves.

While Emma ransacked the armoire, Mary Margaret stooped beside a heap of bed covers and lifted them from the floor. The sheets were soaked in wads of congealed semen and reddish brown blood that must have come from inside of Emma. In the folds of the cotton, she identified clumps of blonde hair and the tatters of her panties. She tried to counteract her queasiness by drawing a quick intake of breath, but the room smelled rotten, and her stomach rioted when she thought about the source of the stench. To spare Emma the agony of handling the blanket, she stuffed it into one her evidence collection bags and sealed it with tape. "We're getting out of here," she announced. "Right now."

Mary Margaret led Emma from the house, down the slick driveway and towards her car.

Drizzle hit the windshield as the sheriff slid behind the wheel and hunched over the dashboard. "I should have taken you to school," she sniffed. "You're going to be late."

Mary Margaret flinched at the idea of leaving Emma to investigate on her own. "I'm coming with you," she insisted.

To keep her memories at bay, Emma concentrated on the road and the rhythmic beat of the rain. The tires screeched against the asphalt as she barreled across a busy intersection and braked in front of the pawnshop.

After she broke the lock on the door, Emma scoured the storeroom and sifted through a pile of receipts. Mary Margaret stayed by the cash register and stared at the gruesome puppets that screamed in noiseless horror.

When Emma reappeared, she resisted looking at Mary Margaret and retraced her steps around the counter. "He's not here," she murmured. "Let's go."

A downpour drenched the pavement as they trudged back to the Volkswagen. On the ride across town, Emma lapsed into a trance as she listened to the sorrowful song of the wind.

.

.

With her curls plastered against her cheeks, Emma stood in the street and sobbed. Tears seared her skin and mascara trickled like ink over her ivory face.

She hung her head between her knees and retched over the gutter outside of the diner. Vomit surged through her nostrils, and in her distress, she swallowed down the chunks of her sickness.

Mary Margaret caught her when her legs buckled under her weight and then circled an arm around her waist to keep her upright. "Emma," she pleaded with her. "Let me take you home."

Stubbornly, Emma ripped herself away from Mary Margaret and ran indoors. Conviction powered her step and converted her features to steel. "Has anyone seen Mr. Gold?" she asked. "There's a warrant out for his arrest."

Granny wiped down the countertops and then cleaned her hands on her apron. "He comes in here every morning for his coffee," she replied. "He took it to go this morning. Said something about taking a trip down to Boston."

Under the fluorescent lighting, Emma looked fatigued and frustrated. Glistening raindrops glided down her pasty nose and between her cracked lips. Her matted hair felt heavy against her neck and the constricting muscles in her throat.

August squinted at her from across the room and noted the subtle traces of tears in her eyes. Her capricious behavior piqued his interest and prompted him to plod over to her. "Are you okay?" he asked. "If you're looking for my brother, he had some business to attend to—"

Mary Margaret shadowed Emma as she started for the door and then came to a sudden stop.

Emma bumped into a table and a paper napkin dispenser tumbled onto the floor. Salt and pepper shakers popped open and sprinkled the tile with seasonings. "I'm not looking for him," she spat. "You—you're William Shriver, aren't you? After all of these years, why did you track me down?"

August smiled in a way that vouched for his sincerity and his ostensibly noble intentions. "I'm interested in your story," he mused. "It's fascinating, Emma. I always wanted to know what became of you—"

Emma reached out and blindly steadied herself on Mary Margaret. Her eyes refused to focus, and her mouth formed a quivering frown. "My story?" she groaned.

A loud crackling noise interrupted their conversation. The wind blew down the power lines on the main street and puffed out the street lamps as though they were birthday candles.

Through the slats in the window shades, August gauged the severity of the storm. He gave Mary Margaret a sidelong glance, and then evaluated Emma. "You're like a book," he told her. "Your life is missing a few pages. Did you ever find your family?"

Emma bit down on her raw lips until she bled rich droplets the color of wine. "No," she stuttered. "I didn't—"

Overwhelmed and ruffled by the thought of her parents, Emma bolted from the diner and returned to her car.

Mary Margaret scurried through the torrential rain and pounded on the passenger side door. As soon as she heard the clicking of the lock, she catapulted herself into the warm interior and combed her wet bangs out of her face. "Emma," she cried. "You have to listen to me! You're sick, and you aren't thinking clearly. You need to go home and rest. Let someone else go after Gold now. Call the state police—"

Emma shook with violent spasms of grief, but as Mary Margaret reasoned with her, she slipped the key into the ignition and took a stabilizing breath. She steered away from the curb and switched lanes before driving towards the interstate highway. "If I have to follow that bastard all the way to Boston, that is exactly what I'm going to do," she insisted.

The headlights cast twin beams onto the black streets and lit up the surrounding gloom.

Mary Margaret eased back against her seat and stared out at the countryside. The stormy afternoon intensified her anxiety and immersed her in thought. "He was with you yesterday," she murmured. "At David's apartment. He let you inside. How many times did he hurt you, Emma? How many times could I have prevented it—"

Emma spotted a vacant vehicle on the side of the road and swerved onto the shoulder. She recognized the car and the license plate number, but sat in numb silence as another burst of rainfall battered the roof and the windshield. In a moment of decisive action, she began loading her handgun and kicked her door open.

With Mary Margaret at her heels, Emma hiked along a dirt pathway and down into the sloping recesses of the forest.

The trees wailed as wretchedly as young mothers mourning the loss of their children.

Mary Margaret tripped over roots and thorny brambles as she trudged through the dead underbrush. "Emma," she moaned sorrowfully. "Emma, wait!"

Emma bent under a low hanging branch and followed the natural dips in the land. Sap stuck to her exposed skin and pine needles tickled her face. Her pulse hammered in her throat as she came to a precipice in the earth. "He's not out here," she conceded. "He must have called someone. He's gone—"

* * *

><p>The stars assembled in tight formation around the sovereign moon, but thunderclouds quickly usurped the celestial throne. Underneath the somber night sky, a caravan of cars hastened towards the abbey on the outskirts of town.<p>

At the appointed hour, the citizens of Storybrooke huddled in foldout chairs and listened to the mayor as she presented her damning case against Sheriff Swan. Her supporters flocked to the front row, but shrank timidly in their seats as Regina marched down the middle aisle and flaunted her evidence. "She has a history of criminal and lascivious behavior," she growled.

From his vantage point, Mr. Gold observed the spectacle without being seen.

When he spied Emma at the entryway, the pawnbroker twirled his stolen umbrella and peered over at Archie.

As the psychiatrist fumbled with his tortoise shell glasses, he resolved to speak out on behalf of the absent sheriff. He straightened his posture and glared up at the fearsome mayor. "It's true," he spluttered in agreement, confused as to what he was saying.

An older woman quirked an eyebrow at him and Archie blushed in bewilderment. She seemed to be pondering whether or not a man of his disposition would have firsthand knowledge of the sheriff's salacious inclinations.

Mr. Gold smirked at the sheepish man and slid his hands into his pockets. He patted his collection of baubles and trinkets and fingered a loose bundle of lace.

Granny reacted to his manipulation of the fabric by scrunching up her nose and scowling. "I never liked her from the start," she announced. "I knew she was trouble the moment she stepped into my inn."

Emma parted from Mary Margaret and trooped towards the front of the meeting hall. With diminishing self-confidence, she glanced out at the crowd and clenched her teeth together. "Is that what you all really believe?" she asked. "You knew about my past when you elected me as sheriff—"

Regina positioned herself behind a podium and welcomed Emma with a flick of her wrist. "Yes, Ms. Swan," she hissed. "Everyone knows that you're a thief and a vagrant. What they don't know is that you're hoping to extort me—"

Emma locked her lips into an obstinate frown and stared forward without blinking. Her tearful eyes were riveted on Henry and his book of stories. "I love my son," she asserted. "I'm here because of him and for no other reason. I would never have given him up for adoption ten years ago, but I had no choice. I gave him up because—"

The mayor scoffed at Emma before she divulged the reasons for her decision. "You gave him up because you were a teenage floosy living in a crack den," she chortled. "No one feels sorry for you."

Henry closed his storybook and his nostrils twitched in anger as Regina publically belittled his birthmother.

The silhouette of the Evil Queen looked like a lurking colossus in the bright burning candlelight. In comparison, the shadows of the townspeople were small and dim.

Mary Margaret shuddered when she glimpsed the scorn and merciless rage that played out on the mayor's face. David installed himself beside her and took her hand.

Emma withstood the harsh defamation of her character and preserved her dignity by choosing not to argue. "I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me," she insisted. "I just want Henry to know the truth."

Regina relished the warbling defeat in the sheriff's voice. "The truth is that you're no hero," she spat. "You're nothing, dear. Just a waste of a human soul."

Emma endured the persecution and exhaled in an effort to keep her composure. As Regina persisted in berating her, she expended the last reserves of her energy and bowed her weary head.

Henry bristled at the insults and bounced up from his chair. "Emma!" he shouted. "Don't listen to her! You're special! You have to believe in yourself! Believe, Emma! It will break the curse! Trust in your ability to do good—"

The boy charged up the aisle to defend her, but Regina restrained him. "Stop that shouting," she demanded.

Regina ordered him to leave the meeting hall, but Henry lingered within earshot of the doorway-

In a worsted wool suit that leant him an air of authority, Mr. Gold limped forward and leered at the young sheriff. Longing and contempt warred within him while he admired the state of her heightened susceptibility. His mouth curled into a lopsided smile when he set his hooded eyes on Regina. "It is time," he proclaimed.

Mary Margaret lurched up from her seat as the mayor lashed out at Emma and smacked her.

Thrown off balance by the blow and the unexpected arrival of Mr. Gold, Emma took a tottering step backwards before balling her hand into a fist and hitting Regina across the face.

Regina reeled into a flagstaff and ripped the banner as she regained her footing. "This is your fault!" she roared at Emma. "You're just like your meddlesome mother—"

Emma stood in suspension as the swarm of onlookers disbanded in chaos. They were mobilized by her _belief_ and seized makeshift weapons as their memories flew back to them like flocks following familiar terrain. Grumpy snatched up his chair and used it as a shield when an oafish man lunged at him. James fought his way through a regiment of King George's forces and Regina's remaining supplicants.

The queen directed her wrath and resentment at Snow White. "You!" she raved. "You and your father ruined my life!"

Snow shook from the sensory impact as her awareness was restored. Before she recovered, Regina knocked her down and slammed her against the marble floor until she lost consciousness.

Emma launched herself at Regina and tore her away from Snow. She shoved her opponent against a table covered in prayer candles. "It's true," she screamed at her. "It's all true—"

Mr. Gold removed himself from the fray, but stayed within range of the action. "The final battle begins with bloodshed," he meditated. "One of you will not walk away from this—"

As Regina wrestled with Emma, smoke wafted up around them and the flames from the candles singed their hair.

Regina scrambled away from the blaze, but Emma tackled her and bashed her face against a mesh screen that enclosed a radiator. She towered over her enemy and yanked her gun from its holster. "Get up," she spat.

A repercussive blast brought the combatants to their knees as the queen felt her returning power pump through her like blood. She reared up with serpentine grace and smacked the weapon out of Emma's hand.

Emma dove for the gun, but Regina descended on her and drove her backwards into a wall.

In the smog from the fire, Emma coughed and clawed her way towards an alcove where a portrait of the Mother Superior hung above a blade with a golden hilt. She took the sword from its resting place and pointed it Regina.

James sprinted through the inferno and scooped Snow into his arms. She clung to him, caressed his cheek and craned her neck in search of Emma. "Our daughter," she cried. "Where is she—"

Henry bounded through the wreckage with Grumpy at his side, but the scorching elements chewed at the rafters and brought them tumbling down. The dwarves escorted the boy to safety as the townspeople dispersed and fled from the building.

Baelfire stood in the mob and tried to push through them to find his father and his brother. He was late to the proceeding, but hope flourished within him when he saw that Emma and Regina were unharmed.

Rumpelstiltskin loomed behind Emma as she nicked Regina's skin with the sharp end of her sword. "Em—ma," he crooned. "That weapon is enchanted. She cannot hurt you so long as you wield it. You've already won. Finish her—"

Emma turned the blunt edge of the blade on Regina, but then lowered the weapon at her side. "No," she breathed. "I'm showing her the mercy that she wouldn't show me—"

Rumpelstiltskin sneered at the evil queen and then moved in to smite her. He sent Regina sprawling on her back, and she writhed in agony before becoming stiff.

Baelfire ran to her and crouched beside her, even as the ceiling burned above them. Embers fell into her eyelashes, but Regina smiled at the man who reminded her so much of Henry. "Mother!" he yelled at her. "Mother, please—"

As Baelfire stared up at him in disgust, Rumpelstiltskin's face contorted with emotion. "Bae," he rasped. "My son, my boy. You know that woman is a danger to you. I only wanted to keep you safe. The prophecy—"

Baelfire sheltered his mother from his father's attacks and the fiery debris that plummeted down on top them. "You put too much stock in prophecies!" he shouted. "Sometimes they are self-fulfilling!"

Emma floundered as she reached a full understanding of the relationship between herself, Regina and Mr. Gold. She gawked at 'Jake' until he began hollering at his father, and then fished her gun out of the rubble, trading her sword for the more familiar firearm.

Her eyes reflected the radiant flames as she pressed the deadly steel into Gold's temple.

Rumpelstiltskin tensed as he felt the cool metal against his forehead, but his tongue slipped between his lips in an expression that was both smug and lurid. "What are you doing?" he purred.

Emma kept her finger over the trigger as she began to shake in anger. "You're the one behind all of this," she barked. "You don't deserve mercy."

Rumpelstiltskin struck the blonde in the sensitive, bruised area of her stomach and her gun went spinning across the floor. She sank onto her knees in front of him and the pain from her chronic abuse incapacitated her.

Baelfire witnessed her distress and outrage coursed through him. "No!" he bellowed at his father. "Don't hurt her!"

Rumpelstiltskin took firm hold of her chin and angled her face so that she would have to stare up at him. "She is destined to kill me," he intoned. "I saw it in a vision. I must control her—"

James supported Snow as they shambled through the spacious hall. The fire engulfed the room in acrid fumes, but they shuffled through the blistering heat until they encountered Emma. Snow saw the sword on the ground and swooped in to reclaim it, but Rumpelstiltskin fiddled with the ring on his finger.

As Rumpelstiltskin fondled the jewel, James and Snow thrashed against invisible tethers.

Rumpelstiltskin stroked their golden-haired child and pulled at her delicate curls as though they were wildflowers that he wanted to uproot. "You are the savior," he told her. "Are you willing to sacrifice yourself for your people?"

Baelfire hoisted his mother onto his shoulders, but as Rumpelstiltskin drew his dagger on Emma, he hesitated to depart. "Father," he pleaded with him. "Let her go. We can leave here, you and I—"

Captivated by the prospect of adding to his power, Rumpelstiltskin only pivoted around to acknowledge his son after he had already gone. With a mist of tears in his eyes, he spun back towards Emma and bared his crooked teeth as he snarled at her. "There is no middle object to your choice," he spat. "Decide. Will you trade your freedom to protect your people?"

When Emma lifted her eyes to look up at Snow and James, her anguish was on exhibition.

Emma thought of her son and a sob rose in her throat as she wondered whether or not he was safe. "Yes," she declared. "Yes, I'll do it—"

Snow and James slumped beside their daughter and Rumpelstiltskin tossed the peridot gem at their limp bodies.

The collection of trinkets shed their magical potency and the monstrous little man flung a handful of the treasures into the inferno.

Just as Rumpelstiltskin sheathed his dagger, August crept up behind him and choked him until he withered at his feet. The writer wrested the weapon out of his grasp, but then bent down next to Emma instead of running him through with it. August registered her relief and gratitude, even as he aimed the dagger at her and plunged it through her center. "What?" he asked her. "Did you think that I was going to save you? Yesterday, you didn't even think that I would ask you out on a second date—"

Emma went into shock as the first eleven letters in Rumpelstiltskin's name became lodged inside of her. The blade pierced through her core muscles, and as she rolled onto her side, the last four letters stuck out of her heaving back.

In spite of the blood, the letters 'S,' 'K,' 'I' and 'N' were discernible and August mouthed the word 'SKIN' as he smoothed her hair.

Emma rotated so that she was closer to the unconscious couple that she knew only as her friends and not as her parents. She left a red handprint on her roommate's cheek as August wrenched the blade out of her.

Rumpelstiltskin advanced towards Emma as August absconded with the dagger. Faced with a decision, he chose to sacrifice his dark abilities in the interest of gaining a stronger power. He let the writer escape and took his last vial of potion from his pocket.

He guzzled the swirling brew of pink and yellow liquid and then kissed Emma. "You belong to me," he told her. "You will always belong to me—"

James reawakened and cried out in fierce savagery as he went for his sword. "Get away from her!" he screamed. "I'll destroy you!"He slashed at Rumpelstiltskin until he noticed the spurt of fresh blood that spouted up from Emma.

As James tended to his daughter and revived Snow from her daze, Rumpelstiltskin vanished into the surrounding smoke—

* * *

><p>Emma awoke with a sharpshooting spasm in her back and a racking pain spreading throughout her stomach cavity. She drifted out of consciousness as a little man in bifocals labored over her and anesthetized her with dripping fluids. Her gored insides spilled outward into his hands as he stitched the wall of her damaged abdominal muscle. His sterile instruments were smeared with her blood when he dropped them into a tray beside his operating table and tied dressings around her midsection-<p>

In the fevered delirium of her dreams, Emma was brought back to the bed of cinders where Rumpelstiltskin crouched over her and salved her mortal wounds with a kiss. His tongue slithered between her lips and his whispers rang in her ears, even after he fled. "You will always belong to me," he crooned. "Your mother and father made sure of that, and now you have sealed their contract—"

.

.

For days after the battle, Emma only stirred to receive Henry, and to sip the soups that Snow spoon-fed her. The war council congregated by her bedside, but she slept through their debates and strategy meetings.

Grumpy and James handled the panicked townspeople who came to call at their doorstep. The Blue Fairy urged the citizens of Storybrooke to return to their homes and wait for Emma to guide them, but she shared her fears with her compatriots. "Rumpelstiltskin has bound himself to the savior," she announced. "Unless that bond is broken, we are without hope. We cannot defeat him without risking her life as well—"

Jiminy Cricket clutched his charred umbrella and frowned at the Blue Fairy. Geppetto stared down at his careworn hands, and guilt colored his face.

James paced around the apartment that was at once familiar and strange to him. He slammed his fist against the rickety kitchen table and knocked the sugar bowl onto the floor. The lid smashed into three pieces and the ceramic bluebird hopped away as though frightened of his temper.

Red was fixated on the brick wall and the painted letters that spelled out the word 'polish.' She glanced up sharply when James hit the table and then crossed her slender arms in front of herself. "We also have a new enemy," she reminded them.

Grumpy rummaged around in the refrigerator and confiscated a half eaten sandwich. "What about the queen?" he asked. "She might still be alive—"

Doc emerged from behind the curtain that separated the bedroom from the rest of the space. After the council moved Emma from his patient care facility to the cramped apartment, the dwarf spent the mornings dozing in a chair that was set up in their library nook. He preferred to be close at hand in case Snow needed him, but she never solicited his advice or asked for his assistance.

Snow neglected her own traumas and cared for her daughter with a vigilant attentiveness that left her feeling drained and dispirited when she saw no improvement in Emma. The window above her bed was dotted with raindrops that rolled across the glass in tandem with the tears that trickled down her face.

During her wakeful hours, Emma only muttered incoherent phrases and names, either pleading for 'Mary Margaret' or Henry.

In the evenings, James watched their daughter while Snow ushered Henry up the stairs to bed. The boy obliged her, but kept a flashlight in his pillowcase so he could search his book for solutions to their problems.

James encouraged Snow to sleep, but she refused to be apart from Emma. "I can't rest," she sniffled. "I can't breathe. We missed so much of her life, James—"

Snow formed a picture of the infant in her mind as she cradled her baby blanket. "I should never have told you to put her in the wardrobe. We should have found another way—"

James studied the exposé article in _The Daily_ _Mirror_ and tried to process the information it provided from his new perspective. "We did what we thought was right," he insisted. "But now I'm no longer interested in doing what is right. We won't run from our enemies or imprison them—"

He snorted as he reached for the burnished hilt of his sword. "I will take my revenge in blood—"

Snow and James quieted when their daughter began to stir and stretch.

Emma felt a tug in her sutures when she shifted underneath the blankets and peered at their profiles in the darkness. Her mouth became pinched as she hardened herself to the thought that Mary Margaret and David were her parents. "Where is Henry?" she asked them.

James folded his newspaper and tucked it underneath his leg before sheathing his blade. "He's safe," he assured her. "He's asleep—"

Snow reached out to touch her child, but the blonde withdrew her arm and avoided direct contact with her. She balked at the mistrust she found in her blue green eyes and at her unwillingness to accept comfort.

Emma tried to sit upright, but her traumas kept her recumbent and helpless.

Snow listed her head to the side as she lowered her hand into her lap. "I'm sorry, Emma," she cried. "I'm so sorry that all of this happened to you—"

Frustrated by her inability to flee from the room, Emma fidgeted with the painted figurines on the nightstand and furrowed her brow as she absorbed the apology. "It's okay," she muttered.

Snow smiled through her tears and scooted closer to her daughter. "Emma," she sighed contentedly. "We're your parents—"

Emma shut down like a hot running engine when Snow looked at her in doting adoration. "No," she whispered hoarsely. "I said it was okay, but you're not my parents." Her anger and bitter resentment manifested itself in her face when she glanced back at her mother. "As soon as I'm feeling well enough to travel, I'm taking my son to Boston. You two are together now. You can start over."

James propped his weapon against the bed and stood up. "You're not going to Boston," he told her. "You don't seem to realize it, but we're at war—"

Emma shied away from the imposing presence of her father and batted her lashes to fend off tears. His tone of voice jarred her and his stubborn attitude provoked her to rebellion. "This is a war I didn't ask for," she countered. "It's not my fight, or my problem."

James rubbed at the strained tendons in his neck and abruptly stormed out of the room. Snow with the royal purple ribbons that she remembered crocheting into the baby blanket during the summer before the birth of her daughter. In silence, she offered the bundle to Emma and then dabbed at her nose with a tissue. "I remember when I held you," she frowned. "I was so afraid to kiss you because I knew that I wouldn't be able to let you go—"

Emma glared at the patch of white satin and the flourishing script that was embroidered into the softer scrap of material. "I _wanted_ you to be my mother." She murmured the admission with a tremulous timbre in her throat. "I wanted it more than anything—"

Snow twirled her peridot ring around her finger until it chafed her skin. "I am your mother," she sniffed. "_I love you_—"

Emma sank her nails into the quilt as her deep suffering brought her to shuddering emotional ruin. "_No_!" she shouted. "You – you did _exactly_ what everyone else has done! You _used_ me! You sent me away to save yourself, and _I_ — I _needed_ you!"

Startled by her outburst, Snow let out a strangled cry before losing control over her breathing. Her chest heaved as she hyperventilated from the stress and the heartache. "You still need me," she wept. "You need a mother, Emma. I _know_ that I'm responsible for what happened to you! You're my child! It's my fault—"

As she relapsed into numb detachment, Emma relaxed against her pillow and nurtured her resolve to leave Storybrooke. "I should _never_ have trusted you," she muttered. "Please go. _Please_—"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's note<strong>: I would LOVE to receive feedback for this chapter. As I've previously stated, this story will end up being quite extensive if I am motivated to sit down and write it. That said, I have no motivation or inspiration lately. Reviews _definitely _help with that.

I realize that the content of the story is quite dark and that may dissuade people from openly declaring an interest in it, but all of your comments/suggestions/words of encouragement are appreciated.

This particular chapter was exceedingly difficult to write, for a number of reasons:

For one, I was bothered when 'August' ended up being 'Pinocchio.'

Nevertheless, I think that I intend to adhere to canon. August will still be 'William,' but he'll also be 'Pinocchio' in my story. Stay tuned if you're interested in seeing how I will make_ that _work…

After they aired "The Return" and "The Stranger," I tried to cut corners by compressing 3 chapters into this one installment of my fic. I'm not happy with the way I re-introduced 'Jake' (Baelfire) but I hope it made for a climactic unfolding of events. If the chapter seems disjointed at any point, it's probably because it _is _disjointed. I left out a few bits and pieces—in particular, a crucial negotiation between Regina and Gold. That, however, was purposeful. I might revisit that later.

Eh, you'll also notice a lot of alliteration in this chapter. It's becoming as much of a problem as my metaphor-obsession, and slowed down the writing process – significantly.

You should probably be wondering why August didn't kill Rumpelstiltskin. I'll explore it in more detail later, but for those of you who are sticklers like me, consider the following: 1) August changed the book. 2) Rumpelstiltskin** is** August's biological father in my version of the story. On some level, that might affect him and prevent him from killing his 'real dad.' 3) He could – very possibly – use the dagger to exploit his father.

Other random notes:

- The 'baucans' is the name of a signal that calls for a fight to the death. It was used during the Middle Ages. You probably should have been thinking about Gold's red scarf during that scene.

- Rumpelstiltskin quotes another passage from the Carmina Burana in the first part of the chapter. The poem is "Aestuans Interius" and you should read it.

- "Que linda sirenita" means, roughly, "Such a pretty little mermaid." If you need translations for the other lines in those scenes, feel free to ask.

**KJohnson17**: It's okay to hate Gold. You're meant to hate him. I think the show did Rumpelstiltskin/Gold a disservice by having him run off to seek psychiatric help. In my opinion, that undermines the essence of his character.

One thing that bothers me about the show is that we see all of the supporting characters develop over the course of the first season. Archie gets back in touch with his conscience; Ruby starts to feel more confident in her own abilities, etc. We never see Mary Margaret develop as a heroine, and I wanted to emphasize that in the last chapter. She may not have been able to save Emma from Gold, but she did try to help her in some small way.

**Lonewolf3676**: Yes, I knew you would appreciate badass Granny. She'll probably be making more appearances in future chapters.

It turned out to be a fun mutiny, and you are correct – MM _was _becoming Emma's safety blanket. Unfortunately I ripped that blanket right out from under her, but it was necessary in order to get the desired dramatic effect.

There's so much that I still have to cover for Regina. Still haven't explored the origins of her powers, her involvement with the Queen of Hearts (which is another part of canon that I intend to carry over to my fic), etc. Haven't delved into her experiences as a young adult, or explained anything about Baelfire's father. There will be a scene in the upcoming chapter with Regina and Bae, if you were wondering. There's also a lot that I need to cover RE: her mother.

An actual bathroom inspired my description(s) of that restroom. I figured it was appropriate. If you all gagged a little when you read that, I did my job as a writer.

**Failisse**: Gold is obsessed with Emma, but he's also afraid of her. He believes she is going to kill him. Eventually you'll find out more about the prophecy that he mentions at the end of the chapter, but I think it's clear by now that his motivations are complicated.

He doesn't think that he has the capacity to love anyone, but he did _save_ her.

He's attached to her and he thinks he's _entitled _to her.

This is a simple answer to your question: Gold is not going to suddenly snap out of it and decide that he loves Emma. But he does feel **something** for her.

**Kendra Luehr**: Thank you.

Gold has been using Emma for a very specific reason. He wants her to do his bidding so that he has some leverage over her. Obviously he's been drugging her all this time, but he realizes he can't keep doing that. He's had an end game in mind from the start, and now everyone (all five of my readers, that is) knows what that end game **is** – or at least they think they know.

And, yes – I hope everyone was amused when MM and David made out in front of Emma. I wanted to bring some levity to the last chapter, since it was rather dark.

**Anon Reader**: I'm glad you're enjoying the story. I definitely appreciate that you took the time to review it. I recognize that my work is disturbing, and I'm sure a lot of people have stopped reading it because they were disturbed. This piece does not follow through with my original vision for the fic, but I don't regret exploring the subjects I've covered in the past several chapters. Fairytales are dark, and real life can be even darker.

**Fan**: I'm flattered that you love my story and that it has become your 'go-to' fic. I'm very sorry about the lack of updates. I meant to get this out there much sooner, but I was pretty frustrated with the writing process. When I see other stories receiving 100+ reviews, and I only get 2-3 reviews per chapter, I find it pretty discouraging. It makes me feel like I suck, quite frankly. ;(

Hopefully this SUPER long chapter will tide you over until I feel inspired again.


	16. Unity

The usual warnings apply. There are some _Alice in Wonderland "_nonsense words" in this chapter.

Corinna = Rapunzel = Regina's mother. But I'm still not adhering to canon for that backstory, so please don't get confused.

* * *

><p>In the heart of the palace was a staircase carved in the likeness of the jabberwocky. The steps were lined with crimson velvet that stretched outward to form a long, lolling tongue, and the newel posts were chiseled into sharp, jagged teeth.<p>

From the top of the grand balcony, the Queen observed her guests with a roving, unsympathetic eye. Her royal guards gathered around her and dispersed only when she barked orders at them.

Regina clung to her mother, and buried her nose in the perfumed fabrics of her gown. "Mama," she whined. "I want to go home."

When she lifted her head, Regina saw that her mother's attention was directed elsewhere.

Corinna shushed her daughter and locked eyes with the Queen. Regina gawked up at the tyrannous woman and admired the scepter in her hand. All of the partygoers stopped to stare in awe of her regal beauty. "They say that her eyes can tear out the heart of a man," avowed one young woman. "That is the power of such loveliness—"

"I heard that she controls men by driving them mad," chirped a second, gangly girl. "Insanity is a curse, you know."

The Queen stormed through the crowd and sneered at her modestly dressed friend. "My dear Corinna," she drawled. "You are looking rather beamish."

To show her loyalty, Corinna kissed the Queen of hearts and offered her a small present. She then placed a protective hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"You have a child," mused the queen. "A precious little girl." She expressed her approval by gripping Regina's chin and smiling into her terrified face.

Corinna paled at the sight of the Queen with her daughter. "Yes," she hissed. "This is Regina."

"Who is the father?" hummed the queen. "Surely not that man you call a husband." She released her hold on the child and scanned the main room in search of Henry.

Corinna dug her nails into Regina's back and gave her a firm shove towards the banquet hall. "Go and fetch me a drink," she suggested. "That's a good girl."

Regina hurried away from the unpleasant interlocution. She stood at a distance and watched as the queen leaned closer to her mother.

"You are not free," whispered the Queen of hearts. "You must always remember that you are mine." With an exaggerated smile fixed in place on her red lips, she wound her arms around Corinna's neck and purred into her ear. "I should have left you locked in that tower."

"I thought we reached an understanding," murmured Corinna. "You will leave me alone, and I will leave your kingdom intact." Her heart thumped in her chest as the queen caressed her cheek and then guided her away from the company.

"Oh, no. Don't forget your place," warned the queen. "There is a reason you are the last of your kind,_ jabberwocky_… Or do you prefer your common name? Sweet little rampion root? Darling Rapunzel—"

* * *

><p>Soot blanketed the stone floor, and the royal guards shuffled through the blackened ash, leaving footprints in their wake. The markings looked like creeping snakes that reared up in a cloud of dust when Regina entered the dungeon.<p>

The forge glowed hot with a fresh supply of coals, and she lingered by the fire while she waited for her father.

A short time later, Henry burst through the door with a dozen men at his back. The last man in the procession carried a prisoner who wore a bag over her head and shackles bound to her feet. "Let me go!" cried the woman. "I will not be treated this way—"

Without ceremony, the guard deposited her in front of the Evil Queen and then exited the room.

Regina toyed with the prisoner before removing the bag and delivering a swift kick to her stomach. The Queen of Hearts grunted and sprawled out in a pile of cold cinder.

"Blind her," commanded Regina. She took a poker and thrust the instrument into the furnace. After the passing of an interval, she handed the tool to her guard.

"Your majesty," sighed her father. "Certainly a woman of your grace can think of a more humane punishment." Henry bumbled forward and frowned at the cowering woman.

"You have no idea what she did to me!" cried Regina. "She deserves to suffer." Her hatred brought glistening tears to her eyes, and her mouth contorted in a fractious scowl.

When her guard balked at the prospect of maiming her enemy, Regina wrenched the poker from his hand. "Give me that!" she blustered. "I'll do it myself!"

* * *

><p>Beneath a canopy of emerald leaves, Regina hid herself from the glaring sun and the threat of looting soldiers. The hushing sway of the apple trees calmed her wearied nerves and plunged her into a restless slumber. When she awoke, she held a crisp fruit close to her mouth and dug her teeth into the ripe flesh, sucking at the juice with her pink tongue. Her half-lidded eyes only popped open when she heard the sounds of horses and men.<p>

A soldier stepped down the garden walk and paused to inspect a sundial that stood halfway between the rose bushes and an overgrown hemlock. His hand hovered above a sword wrought of red metals and dull gems. In his suit of chainmail, he moved like liquid gold and trampled over the flowers that strayed into his path.

Scouts appeared on horseback and urged their animals to push forward through the marshy soil. A pair of chestnut draft horses brought up the rear, pulling a covered carriage.

Regina fled through the thicket, but the men detected her presence and flung spears at her back. She ducked below a fallen log and rolled into a mossy dip in the earth. A soldier seized her by the ankles and dragged her out into the gloaming light of early evening. "What have we here?" he chuckled. "Don't struggle, sweetheart—"

The scouts circled around the young woman and tied ropes around her wrists and feet.

"Reinard!" shouted a familiar voice. "What have you found?" The Queen of Hearts emerged from her carriage and peered down at the squirming figure on the ground. "Ah," she mused. "An untidy, slurvish child from beyond Witzend."

Reinard grabbed Regina by her long, dark hair and tugged her face into view. "What shall we do with her?" he asked.

"She is my sworn enemy," huffed the Queen. "Make certain that her line will produce no more heirs." Her cold eyes settled on the young woman as the soldiers hauled her through a bed of thorns and stripped her down to the linen of her undergarments.

"Please," begged Regina. "I've done nothing wrong! I would never oppose you!" Her braided hair came unraveled as Reinard broke through the boning that kept her corset in place.

"Stop!" cried a man whose features were concealed in the oncoming twilight. "She is naught but a child."

"She is old enough to have lost her maidenhead," remarked Reinard. He fiddled with his belt and dropped his pants to his knees.

The Red Queen whirled around to glare at the lone man who dared to speak out against her. With a snap of her fingers, she set her scouts into motion.

The cavalry enclosed on the dissenter and tossed him into the dust. "We'll deal with you later," snorted a captain. "Learn your rank, Spindleshanks."

"She is innocent," insisted the young man. "Innocent as a doe. Leave her alone!" He rushed at his comrades with a raised sword, but Reinard shattered his nose and bloodied his face. His captain took a blunt weapon to his legs and then strung him to the boughs of a rotting apple tree.

Regina kept her eyes level with the dirt until Reinard positioned himself behind her.

She shrieked as the man crushed her with the weight of his body and shoved her face into the mud.

The captain lowered himself to lay with her and wrapped his hands around her waist. "This is no place for a young girl," he admonished her. "Where are your parents, lass?"

"This was their homestead," interjected the Red Queen. "They must both be dead. Casualties of the war, no doubt." She smoothed the silken taffeta of her gown and paced around the clearing.

"We'll take care of her," cooed the captain. "I know just what she needs." His shriveled manhood hardened as he rubbed the length between Regina's thighs. He coaxed his cock into the unwelcoming canal at her center. "What's your name?" he groaned. "What's your name, sweet?"

"Her mother called her _G,_" snickered the queen. "That is a name for a peasant." Her eyes bore into Regina, and she only smiled after the young girl cried out in shame and agony.

* * *

><p>In the swaddling of his knitted blanket, the baby looked and sounded like a tiny lamb. His miserable bleating kept Rumpelstiltskin awake at night; the child only quieted in the early hours of the morning when he had his fill of milk.<p>

The weaver played with his wee fingers and toes, but Baelfire whined and cried until his father plucked him up from his basket. "Shh," crooned Rumpelstiltskin. "Don' be afraid. I promise to keep you safe."

He hushed and rocked the baby, and the child peeped up at him with intelligent, trusting eyes.

"_I am sorry_," whispered Rumpelstiltskin. "I am sorry, Bae. If you stayed with your true mam, the Red Queen would have found you. That witch would have found you for sure." He clutched the baby against his chest and stroked the peach fuzz that grew along his scalp.

"I couldn' let that happen," he sighed. "Not after what her men did to your mam. Not after what they did to me." He put the baby in his wooden bassinet and then limped over to the window.

"I don' know much about your mam," he admitted. "I never did see her face. 'Twas the nursemaid who told me you were in danger…. But never you mind, son. Ye're safe now. Ye're safe here with me…"

* * *

><p>The lavender skies lit up in the afterglow of the sunset, and rainbows skipped around the bedroom, leaping outward from the crystal unicorns that once hung above an empty crib. Emma sat upright and scrutinized the stitches that ran between her navel and the waistband of her pajama pants, looking like crisscrossed animal tracks on her snow-white skin. She pulled at her t-shirt and then covered herself with heavy blankets, settling into the familiar warmth of the bed. The sheets were no longer infused with the fragrance of sweet vanilla, but the pink throw pillow still smelled of Mary Margaret.<p>

To stave off the urge to cry, Emma shut her eyes and tucked the cushion behind her neck. She listened to the noises that came from the kitchen—the sounds of scraping forks and clinking glasses, and then the scuffling of feet as James and Snow set up their air mattress in the den. Henry trudged up the stairs to the loft, and could be heard through the floorboards, banging around instead of resting.

When Snow tiptoed in to check on her, Emma concentrated on drawing soft breaths. Her body shook with anger, but her expression was inscrutable in the surrounding dusk. Tears glided down her nose and under the slope of chin. She locked the uneven rows of her teeth together, and pretended to be asleep when the brunette wandered closer.

Snow padded over to the window, tied back the curtains and eased into the armchair by the bed. She stared out at the street that cut through the center of the quiet town. The lampposts that had been knocked down by the storm were still strewn on the properties of local shopkeepers. Only natural light illuminated the sidewalks and roadways in front of the old apartment building.

The moon resembled a nickel in the night sky — minted in bright shining metal and stamped with the profile of a man's face.

In a patch of silvery starlight, Snow rummaged through her jewelry box and sifted through the keepsakes she stored in her night table. She found a pair of chandelier earrings and a delicate filigree bracelet that reminded her of her own mother. In a haze of thought, she glanced at the motionless figure in the bed. "Emma?" she whispered.

Emma turned towards Snow and studied her with growing impatience. "What are you doing?" she asked.

Snow lowered a string of pearls into her ornate jewelry box and then stood up. Her eyebrows lifted by a degree, but she appeared unsurprised to discover that the blonde was still awake. She shuffled over to Emma and brushed the curls away from her damp forehead. "I'm sleeping in here with you," she murmured. "I've tried giving you space, but you can't be alone right now. Not like this—"

Emma tolerated the unwanted attention, but when Snow reached out to touch her cheek, she flinched and shied away from the affectionate caresses. "You're treating me differently now," she grunted. "I'm not a child—"

Snow withdrew her hand, but her eyes betrayed her deep devastation. "You're being stubborn," she whispered. "You haven't slept in days. You won't eat. How do you expect to get better?"

Emma shifted in her discomfort and pressed her mouth into a frown. "I feel sick when I eat," she quietly admitted. "If I sleep, I have nightmares…"

Troubled by the soft tones of desperation in her voice, Snow rose up from the bed and went into the kitchen. She returned with saltines and a bowl of vegetable soup that gave off an enticing aroma.

After she arranged the tray in front of Emma, Snow perched the bed and regarded the blonde with a look that was both apologetic and pitying. "It's bland," she promised. "It won't upset your stomach."

To appease the persistent brunette, Emma dipped her spoon into the dish and tasted the broth. She showed her appreciation by muttering a polite word of "thanks" as she finished the meal.

Snow removed the tray and rinsed the plates before hurrying back to the bed. She placed a pillow over her lap, and with silent understanding, Emma nestled against her.

As her muscles relaxed, Emma closed her eyes and coiled into the nurturing warmth of her _mother. _Her chest tightened when she considered pulling away from Snow, but she relented to the needs of her body and drifted off to sleep.

James pushed the drapery aside and took in the sight of Snow cradling their daughter. He strode forward and sank into the chair by the bed. "She's resting," he observed. "Good."

Snow kissed her daughter's flushed face and rocked her until she breathed peacefully. "… she won't let me take care of her anymore," she sniffed. "She hasn't spoken to me in days. Tonight she was too exhausted to put up a fight. I'm sure she won't even look at me in the morning—"

James rubbed his rough chin and hunched forward under the weight of worrisome thoughts. "Snow," he sighed. "Given the circumstances, we're doing the best that we can…"

* * *

><p>In the throes of a night terror, Emma tumbled out of bed and crashed into the bureau. A menagerie of glass animals fell to their deaths, shattering in jagged pieces as they hit the floor. A pair of clownish figurines took the jump together, and their grinning heads rolled underneath the furniture.<p>

Emma let out a gasping cry and tried pushing herself into an upright position. Her damaged body resisted the force that she put into the action. She screamed through her teeth at the unbearable pain.

James hurried in from the living room and knelt beside his daughter. Snow descended on Emma and reached out to soothe her.

"Here," James muttered. "I've got you." He wrapped his arms around Emma and pulled her closer until her back was flush against his chest. His embrace startled her into a panic, but he misinterpreted her soft whines and subtle cues.

Snow saw the familiar earmarks of distress and gestured for James to stop. "Wait!" she cried. "She's frightened."

Emma tore herself away from her parents and crawled into the corner. Her eyes were wide with fear and her shallow, rapid breathing left her lightheaded and confused.

With a measure of caution, Snow moved after her daughter and extended her hand. "Emma," she sighed. "You were dreaming again. You're okay now…"

As the muscle in her neck began to tighten and constrict her airway, Emma strained to speak. "No," she rasped. "…I'm not okay. Why didn't you find another way?"

"Emma," Snow whimpered. "There was no other way." Her high-pitched assertion contained an undertone of doubt and a warbling note of regret. She threw her arms around her daughter in an impulsive attempt to close the distance between them.

James watched Emma's face fall, and he cringed as she retreated from her mother. "We were presented with one choice," he reasoned aloud. "One choice alone—"

Emma felt bitter tears collecting in her long lashes. Her face turned red and the veins in her forehead became more pronounced as she fought to withhold her anger. "Do you know what it was like growing up without you?" she asked. "No one _cared _about me. They just took what they _wanted_—"

Snow clamped her lips together and shook an intrusive mental image out of her head. "It's going to be different now," she promised, though her sorrowful eyes conveyed her uncertainty.

"No!" bawled Emma. "It's _no_ different!" She banged the wall with the flat of her hand and then struggled to stand.

"I won't let it happen again!" cried Snow. "I'll never let anyone hurt you again!" She shot up from the floor and latched on to Emma's arm.

"You can't save me!" shouted Emma, through tears of indignation and despair. "You couldn't even save yourself! You needed _me_ to rescue _you_!"

"You broke the curse," breathed Snow. "Now it's my duty to protect you. You need your family, Emma!" Her mouth quavered and teardrops streamed down her colorless cheeks.

"Stop telling me how much I _need_ you!" screeched Emma. "I don't need you!" She twisted her torso to avoid physical contact with her mother and then staggered across the room.

"Please," sobbed Snow. "I'm sorry! I'm _so_ sorry!" Her scrunched face showed her every imperfection and each deep wrinkle of stress. James gathered his blubbering wife into a loose embrace and stood with her at the foot of the bed.

"My whole life is a fucking set up!" screamed Emma. "If this is my destiny, I don't want it!" She lapsed into a turbulent fit of crying, but neither Snow nor James succeeded in calming her.

"Get away from me!" she wailed. "_I don't want this_! I - _don't_ – want - it! -"

* * *

><p>The furniture in Ms. Blanchard's apartment looked like handcrafted miniatures commonly found in dollhouses. The quaint interior design brought a cozy feel to the cramped quarters, but Rumpelstiltskin did not stop to dwell on the pleasantries. He headed straight to the bedroom and greeted his host with an intimidating sneer. "I am here to check on my investment," he announced. "How is she feeling?"<p>

Snow jumped up from where she had been resting with her arms folded over her desk. She stepped in between Rumpelstiltskin and her slumbering daughter. "Stay away from her!" she cried.

James snagged Rumpelstiltskin by the tie and pointed a dagger at his unshaven neck. "You aren't invincible," he hissed. "I can still inflict pain."

Rumpelstiltskin slipped his finger into the knot on his burgundy tie and loosened the binding. "Oh – I would advise you against that," he hummed. "Think of how I might be tempted to retaliate. Your daughter is still in a fragile state—"

"Keep your hands off of her!" shouted James, but his fear dampened his bravado. He flexed the muscles in his hand and then lowered his dagger.

Rumpelstiltskin eyed the discarded blade and then seated himself in the cushioned chair by the bedside. "No need to raise your voice," he cooed. "Best not to wake the sleeping child—"

Snow hovered over Emma and envisioned her dozing baby nestled safely in her arms. "She's not a child," she muttered under her breath. "We _missed out_ on her childhood. _You_ took that from us. You _took_ our child—"

Rumpelstiltskin remained mindful of Charming as he drew his chair nearer to the bed, though he ignored Snow and her quiet ranting.

"It is strange," mused the imp. "You are her father, but I am the only man who has ever protected her. I saved her life, and now – she – is - mine."

To test the bounds of his control, Rumpelstiltskin leaned toward Emma and stroked the bruised side of her face. "She is a ravishing beauty," he remarked, petting her in full view of her parents. "I am going to enjoy our new arrangement—"

Snow leapt at Rumpelstiltskin and restrained his arms. "Don't you touch her!" she warned him. "You monster! I _will _destroy you!"

James swung his sword in agitation, and his voice rumbled ominously. "If _you_ think I am going to allow you to bed my daughter…."

Rumpelstiltskin turned his head and chuckled to himself. His smug grin stoked Charming into a rage.

"Why are you laughing?" spat James. He stuck his blade under Rumpelstiltskin's chin and scowled at his effrontery.

"Weren't you aware?" scoffed Rumpelstiltskin. "I've already lain with her. Your princess has a rather insatiable appetite—" He clasped his hands together, and his eyes spiraled sideways like the mechanical oculars in an old fashioned cat clock.

James squinted to halt the burning tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. "What is he talking about?" he squawked. "Snow - what is he saying?"

"James," cried Snow. "I tried to tell you. You must not have understood—" Her posture changed as she looked up at her husband. She straightened her shoulders in an effort to stay strong, but her nose twitched and her bottom lip trembled.

"No!" roared Charming. "No! Never again! You'll never touch her like that again!" He spun around and loomed over Rumpelstiltskin with a murderous snarl on his face.

"Oh, but I shall," gloated Rumpelstiltskin. "She spreads her legs - quite - eagerly." With a lazy blink and a sly smile, he moved away from Charming and stood gazing out of the window.

"Liar!" screeched Snow. "I saw what you did to her!" She lunged forward and threw out her arms, positioning herself as a human barricade between Rumpelstiltskin and Emma.

"You gave me her name," purred Rumpelstiltskin. "If I ever hurt her, it was because you gave me the power to do it—" He twirled around and waggled his fingers at Snow.

"What now my dear?" came his taunting reply. "You don't like it when I assign the blame where it is due? I _thought _not."

"Don't listen to him," growled James. "This was not your fault." He used his thumb to brush away his tears, and then risked glancing at his sleeping daughter.

Snow allowed her guilt to weaken and demoralize her. She clung to Charming and shuddered against him. "I should have protected her," she howled. "I should have been with her. She—she's… my little girl—"

"You know, she has your eyes," tittered Rumpelstiltskin. "I bet she has - many - of your other - fine - qualities." He tapped his cane on the wood floor to emphasize his elongated words.

Emma awoke when he boldly swept aside her blanket and then prodded her with his walking stick. Her ruffled hair swatted the pillow as she abruptly shifted in bed and rammed the cane back into his stomach. "You sick son of a bitch," she spat. "Get away from me, or I _will_ kill you, regardless of the consequences."

"Oo-hoo-hoo-ooh," jeered Rumpelstiltskin. "I take it you are feeling much better." He propped his cane against the nightstand and then perched at the edge of the bed. "Charming," he sang. "I would like a moment of privacy with your daughter."

Snow recovered her bearings and flew at Rumpelstiltskin. "No!" she screeched. We're not leaving you alone with her!"

Emma bent her knees and flipped over onto her side, yanking the bedspread up to her neck. "You can _all_ leave," she demanded. "_Get out_."

"Come now," clucked Rumpelstiltskin. "Is that any way to behave? We are concerned about you." His grin broadened, and with an arresting flash of his teeth, he brought Snow White to silence.

"You're a fucking lunatic," hissed Emma. "As soon as I'm better, I'm taking my son and getting the hell out of here." In her state of heightened fury, her skin crawled and her muscles reacted violently to any stimulus. Her mouth dropped open when he smiled at her.

"You won't get very far," lilted Rumpelstiltskin. "Your soul is tied to - mine. You are to be my pupil and my ally, Emma." He kept a watchful eye on Charming and Snow as he circled around the bedridden blonde.

"I thought I was destined to kill you," murmured Emma. Without a fluid transition, her rage subsided into anxiety and quiet confusion.

Rumpelstiltskin fixed the hem of his suit jacket and then lowered himself into the armchair that he recently vacated. "To kill me would be to kill yourself," he asserted. "And I believe you have a boy that needs his mother."

Snow formed a united front with Charming, but she faltered after Rumpelstiltskin confirmed her unspoken fear—that Emma's life depended on her ability to cooperate with the man who harmed her.

James pointed his weapon at the imp's back, but he recoiled in pain when he tried to take his revenge. Rumpelstiltskin brushed the blade aside, and observed as Charming fell to his knees.

Horrified, Snow crouched on the floor and cradled her husband in arms. Her dread and nervous anticipation continued to build as Rumpelstiltskin slid his hand up Emma's thigh.

"What do you want?" whispered Emma. "What do you want from _me_?" Her courage wavered for a brief moment, and Snow glimpsed the panic in her face.

"I want you to be loyal to me_,_" intoned Rumpelstiltskin. "I am the only one that you can trust. Your interests are now _my_ interests." He cupped her cheek with uncommon tenderness, and then traced her lips with the pad of his thumb.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" breathed Emma. "To be _bound_ to me forever? Because I'm more difficult to deal with when I'm not under the influence of your mind numbing concoctions. I'll spend the rest of my life finding ways to make you miserable." She flinched away from his questing hand and challenged him with her frosty glare.

"Pretty princess," crooned Rumpelstiltskin. "Brave princess. Don't you fear me?" He put his hand on her belly, and his fingertips grazed the rough outline of her stitches.

"Is that why you did it?" muttered Emma. "You want me to fear you?" She searched his features for a motive or a sign of emotion.

"There are easier ways of inspiring fear in a person," replied Rumpelstiltskin. His expression did nothing to disclose his scheme. He bowed away from Emma and freed Charming from his spell.

"Emma needs to rest," croaked Snow. She retrieved a pill bottle from her desk and a tall glass of water. Her mind refused to deal with her feelings of helplessness and self blame, but she managed to handle the mundane task of uncapping the medicine.

"Yes, of course, dear." Rumpelstiltskin humored the trifling woman and removed himself from the bedside. "You should know that I always take care of my possessions."

"I want to know why," rasped Emma. "Tell me why you did it…." His maddening smile at last triggered the collapse of her personal defenses. As he departed without answering her, fat teardrops raced down her face and the tendons in her throat began to jump and throb. "Tell me," she cried. "_I have to know..._"

* * *

><p>From his hideaway at the top of the steps, Henry eavesdropped on the war council and listened for the sobs that came with some regularity from the downstairs bedroom. His flannel shirt became snared on a loose nail, but he rotated himself until he had a perfect view of the kitchen.<p>

The Blue Fairy took up residence by the stove and tended the kettle that sat on the burner. Her frown seemed fitting when paired with her severe looking uniform. She poured the water for tea and then glanced between Geppetto and Jiminy Cricket.

"This is happening because of my selfishness," moaned Geppetto. "There was room in the wardrobe for the princess and her mother…" He ran his fingers around the edge of his hat and lifted his mournful eyes to Prince Charming.

"…he sent Pinocchio to safety…" whispered Jiminy Cricket. He gulped when he glanced at Granny and the seven dwarves. Even Happy and Dopey were slouched low in their seats, and their disgust was evident in their faces.

Charming drove his fist into the wall, but the act did little to diffuse his rage. Ruby bounced up from the table and placed a supportive hand on his shoulder.

"My boy…" muttered Geppetto. "I don't know what became of him." He addressed the Blue Fairy, because everyone else was sitting in solemn silence.

"This world can be dangerous," sighed the Fairy. "It is no place for defenseless children." Her role as a mediator caused her to come between Geppetto and James. She seemed to feel sympathy for them both, but she knew that nothing she could say would ease their minds.

"There was no one to protect my daughter," fumed James. "Your selfishness has damned us all." He slammed his knuckles back into the gaping crack in the plaster, but Ruby snagged him by the elbow and prevented him from wreaking further destruction.

"We can protect Emma," insisted Grumpy. "We just need to find a way to shatter the bond between her and Rumpelstiltskin." He stared at the delicate curtains that divided the downstairs into two separate rooms. The shadows of Emma and Snow were in motion, and their crying traveled throughout the small space.

"There is nothing we can do about Rumpelstiltskin," conceded the Blue Fairy. "The union is nigh unbreakable." Her announcement inspired widespread alarm, and James crossed the floor in three long strides.

"I thought you said that it could be undone!" blustered the Prince. He braced his hands on the counter and used the strength of his arms to keep himself upright.

"This _particular_ bond will be difficult to undo," cautioned the Blue Fairy. "Rumpelstiltskin may be in love with the savior. It is not the type of love that makes for a happily ever after, but he has formed an attachment to her – in _one way_ or another." Her terse explanation riled the group and the outcome was that everyone began talking at once.

Ruby evaded the boisterous chatter and ducked into the bedroom to check on Snow and Emma. "Can I get you anything?" she whispered.

"Emma…threw up last night's dinner," muttered Snow. "Could you hand me a clean shirt?" She mopped up the vomit and then wrestled the nightshirt off of her daughter.

Ruby took a laundered shirt from the wardrobe and offered it to Snow. She acknowledged Emma with a softhearted smile, and then slipped out of the bedroom.

Snow held her daughter and patted her on the back. She felt an unprecedented burst of relief with Emma burrowed against her, but the reprieve was undeserved and short lived. Her guilt gnawed at her limbs and hollowed her out. "I know that you don't trust my judgment," she mumbled. "My choices put you at the mercy of that monster. I'm not asking for forgiveness…but, Emma… you have to—"

* * *

><p>"Listen to me," was his obstinate answer. "Your parents abandoned you on the side of a freeway. They're not out there looking for you. They don't give a damn about you—"<p>

Emma felt her knees buckle from the strain of standing in high heels. She gaped up at the tall, self-assured man and then shook her head. "I'll never know," she told him. "Unless I'm able to find them—"

Jake gave her a look that could have pinned her to the wall, along with his dartboard and his unusual collection of posters. "Let's assume, for a moment, that you're right," he snorted. "What do you think is going to happen?"

He narrowed his eyes in determination as he tried to convince her to share his perspective. "Do you think they just forgot about you?" he scoffed. "Maybe mom popped you out while she and dad were on a picnic? Forgot her favorite tablecloth, and her firstborn? I'm pretty sure it was intentional—"

"Maybe she was running away," whispered Emma. "She might have been in danger." Her childish pout frustrated Jake, but he ushered her over to the couch and offered her a tissue.

"I've been unsympathetic," he observed. "I've been rude _and_ sarcastic. If that won't sober you up, well – you're hopeless." Without waiting for her to provide further evidence of her shortcomings, Jake went into the kitchen. He returned with a cup of coffee and a bowl of soggy fruit loops.

"No more whiskey for you," he chided. "Have some cereal." Jake spooned up the mushy breakfast food and then scrutinized Emma. She stared at him with a doubtful frown on her face.

"What?" he demanded. "I don't cook." He plopped down on the sofa and handed her the mug of coffee.

Emma watched the summer fireworks through a wide window at the front of the apartment. The colors seemed bright enough to leave a lasting mark on the sky, but the rain of mesmerizing embers soon fell into the darkness.

Jake swallowed thickly and turned towards the young blonde. For the first time since they met, he appeared anxious and uncertain. He loosened his tie until it hung askew, and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. "Kid," he muttered. "Emma—"

"Are you going to spoon feed me?" she asked. Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, but she blushed when she noticed the shift in his behavior.

"I don't know," he retorted. "Can you chew solid foods yet? " His serious, thoughtful expression had vanished, and was replaced by an air of indifference.

Emma put her mug down on the coffee table, next to a crumpled newspaper and a stack of playing cards. She glanced up at the posters that were arranged in frames around the living room. "Did you draw that?" she murmured.

Her light, timid voice revealed an urgent need to deflect his criticisms and biting remarks.

With a flippant shrug, Jake crossed the room and plucked the frame from its hanging place. "It's a phoenix," he announced. "An immortal bird that possesses the power to turn the world into ash."

Emma slipped out of her heels and massaged her sore feet. "You make it sound like a symbol of destruction," she whispered. "I thought it was a symbol of rebirth?"

"Smart girl." Jake regarded her with a solemn, penetrative eye. His praise brought a smile to her lips and renewed her confidence. "It's _both_."

* * *

><p>The thawing snow fell from the rooftop in heaps. He paused beside the frosty kitchen window and studied the melting yard. The apple tree stood leafless and barren. A dove pecked at the muddy soil before taking flight over the hedgerows.<p>

In the dreary daylight, Baelfire passed through the parlor and started up the winding staircase. He entered the master bedroom and set a tray on the antique night table.

Regina let out a quiet groan and then groggily lifted her head from her pillow. "Henry?" she cried. "Henry!" Her voice cracked and she spoke in a husky whisper. "Where - is - my - son?"

Baelfire tensed when his mother tried to launch herself up from the bed. He waited until she relaxed, and then thrust a glass of juice under her nose. "Drink this," he demanded.

When she looked up at him with questioning, fearful eyes, he reassured her. "It's _juice."_

Regina opened her mouth to argue with him, but the sting of her injuries caused her to wince. "Thank you," she muttered. "You—saved my life."

"I saved you for a reason," Baelfire insisted. "You're my mother." He peered at her reflection in the oval mirror that hung on the opposite wall.

"Rumpelstiltskin made an exchange," he explained. "His child fell ill, and I was healthy. He never mentioned what he did, but his wife…. She realized the truth, and told me where I might find you." Baelfire kept his emotions from affecting his conduct. He chose to face his mother, and to take her hand.

"I loved my father," he admitted. "He was a good man, once—" As if to establish the verity of his words, he pulled the wishing cap from a pocket on his cargo jacket.

Regina touched the fleece cap, and when the soft lambs' wool brushed against her fingertips, her nose and eyes began to run. "He gave this to you?" she rasped.

"No," Baelfire sighed. "But I consoled myself in thinking that this hat was meant for me, and that he wanted me to have it. I thought it would allow me to start over." He rubbed his callused hands against his jeans and bowed his head. "I never expected that I'd become like my father. _Or _my mother."

"I'm sorry," muttered Regina. "I'm—sorry." Her scratchy throat became closed over by shame. She settled down in her bed, and stared blankly at the flashing alarm clock on her bureau.

"Do you remember me?" he asked. "I encountered you on the road when I was a child. I stood in front of your carriage—"

After she failed to answer him, Baelfire followed her eyes and wandered nearer to the dresser. A portrait of a grinning, toothless boy sat alongside a scented candle and the digital clock.

Regina attempted to stand, but her legs gave out from under her. Baelfire spun around in time to catch his mother. "You look so much like Henry," she sniffed. "Is he here? Can—I see him?"

"Henry?" Baelfire repeated the familiar name. He lurched away from Regina and grabbed the photo from the top of the dresser. Upon inspecting the school photograph, he experienced a deep and abiding surge of anger. "Emma," he breathed. "She mentioned him."

"This…is my son."

* * *

><p>The woods grew dark with the umber of evening, but Rumpelstiltskin raised his lantern and roamed along a steep slope in the earth. His marsupial eyes were large, yellow, and alert. He only stopped when he came to the door of his cabin and met with Mr. August Booth.<p>

With his snaggletooth showing in a self-satisfied grin, Rumpelstiltskin invited the writer to take a seat by his hearth.

August lowered himself into a rocking chair, and proceeded to lounge with his arms behind his head. His eyelids were half open, and he wore the sly smile of a man who knew he had the upper hand.

Rumpelstiltskin poured a drink for his guest, but when August refused him, he took a sip of the draught and dumped the rest into his fireplace. Flames sprang up where he dashed the liquid, without the use of tinder or spark. "You stole my dagger," he mused. "I would like to have it back—"

August leaned forward to warm himself, and to prove that his host did not intimidate him. "I'm sure we can work out an agreement," he blinked. "I know you're in the habit of making deals. My demands are simple enough."

Rumpelstiltskin began to laugh, but he nodded and drew up his chair. "I have no doubt that your request will be anything but unreasonable," he remarked. "But before we enter into our negotiations, please indulge my curiosity."

"Why did you write yourself into the book?" asked the dangerous little man. "Surely that is what you must have done, seeing as you were able to pass the town line—" He gripped the top of his cane with both hands and then traced an invisible boundary on the floor.

"You don't know who I am?" August balked at the pawnbroker, and he remained agape after Rumpelstiltskin confirmed his suspicion.

"You go by many names," tittered the imp. "But whose identity have you stolen?" He produced a pocket watch from his vest and checked the hour.

August fought to keep his disbelief and outrage from registering on his face. "Pinocchio," he spat. "He had a father who loved him – who _wanted _him more than anything else in the world. I wasn't so lucky."

* * *

><p>The war council reconvened around a table spread with jams, jellies and freshly toasted bread. Grumpy piled eggs onto his plate and squirted ketchup faces on his hotcakes. His appetite rarely suffered when he was feeling glum, but he abstained from a second helping of bacon after Snow and Charming entered the room.<p>

Snow took her seat with dignity and poise, but she seemed unaware of her company. Charming positioned himself at her shoulder, and exchanged a meaningful glance with his friends. As he prepared a speech, the door swung inward and Rumpelstiltskin stepped into the bright kitchen.

Without taking the time for polite overtures, the pawnbroker approached Geppetto and threw out his hand. "I require your chisel," he proclaimed. "It is a _rather_ small sacrifice to make for your savior."

Granny aimed her gun at the intruder, but Snow shrieked and lunged at the older woman. "It will only hurt Emma," she cried. "Please—"

Rumpelstiltskin strolled around his adversaries, heedless of their scornful frowns. "Give me the chisel," he sneered. "And I will be on my way—"

Geppetto retrieved his finest chisel from a satchel at his feet, but James halted him before he presented the offering to Rumpelstiltskin.

The prince planted himself between his company and his uninvited guest. "You want the chisel?" he asked. "_You can have it_. But leave my daughter alone."

Rumpelstiltskin squinted at Charming and addressed him in a low, confidential voice. "Must I remind you that you are in no position to demand anything of me? If you choose to deny my request, I may feel inclined to take your precious child from you. It is a courtesy that I allow her to stay here—"

Snow snatched up the chisel and thrust the instrument into Rumpelstiltskin's hands. "Take it," she told him. "I'll give you whatever you want,but my daughter remains under my roof. Do you understand?"

"Oh yes," agreed Rumpelstiltskin. "I believe I do." He held her gaze until she shrank behind Charming. Then the imp tested his newfound powers by enchanting the woodcarver's tool. When the chisel hummed with energy, he bowed away from the gathering. "The sun is shining today. You should all take advantage of the fine weather. You never know how long the reprieve will last—"

* * *

><p>The Blue Fairy arrived in a bustle of agitated panic. Her bun unraveled and her hair tangled into scraggly knots. She wore the navy dress common to the ladies of the convent, but her winter shawl had whimsical touches reminiscent of her former life—a white fur collar, pale blue fabric and buttons shaped like snowflakes.<p>

When she rushed into the tiny apartment, she found that Snow and Charming were alone.

Snow looked in on the bedroom where Emma slept and Henry read aloud from his storybook. Charming stationed himself by the coffee pot, but his weariness would not be mitigated by caffeine.

The Blue Fairy peeked through the curtain at Emma and then pulled Snow aside. "I have been in council with my sisters," she announced. "There is little hope. We have no way return to our own world. We believed that we'd return when the curse was broken, but it seems we are stuck here…"

Snow became inattentive while she listened to the fairy, but she knew that accessing their world might allow them to uncover a safeguard for Emma. "Have you figured out why?" she asked.

"There is an ancient prophecy," spluttered the fairy. "It speaks of a great destroyer and a great redeemer. The prophecy foretells the end of our world. The end of _all worlds_—"

* * *

><p>The afternoon sunlight bathed the room in ethereal gold and warmed the spot where Henry curled up with Emma. He used his book as a desk and sketched a picture in crayon and pencil. "This was your idea," he reminded her. "Why aren't you helping?"<p>

Emma picked up a marker and pressed the felt tip to a blank piece of paper.

Using their imaginations, she and Henry constructed a fortress from glue and craft supplies.

Snow interrupted them at bedtime, and managed to smile when Henry showed off his artwork. "What are you drawing?" she asked.

"That's a broadsword and this is a machete," Henry announced. "My mom says that I have to wait a few years before I can have a real weapon—" He rocked forward on his heels and ignored the disapproving look that he received from Snow.

Emma put the crayons back in their box and shoved the markers into a zip lock bag. "I'll teach you how to use my stun gun," she promised.

Snow examined another picture and tried to ascertain whether it was meant to be a landscape or an abstract illustration. "What's this?" she blinked.

"A hungry sea monster," grinned Henry. "And that's supposed to be Rumpelstiltskin." He pointed at a crooked set of monster teeth that were clamped down on a small, toothpick-sized human.

"You should go and show James." Snow exhaled sharply and perched at the end of the bed.

Henry bounced into the kitchen, and Emma continued to clean up the mess.

Snow tilted her head to get a better view of Emma and the crumpled sheet of loose leaf in her hand. "What did you draw?" she whispered.

A flower with red petals bloomed from the center of the page. The design might have been lifelike if it resembled any blossom found in nature.

"Can I have this?" Snow took the drawing without waiting for confirmation from her daughter.

Emma locked her mouth into a tight frown and breathed through her nose. "What are you going to do?" she asked. "Show it off to the Blue Fairy and then hang it on the fridge?"

Snow braced herself for another confrontation, but when Emma slumped against her pillows, she heaved a sigh of gratitude.

Emma rested her head against the pink throw cushion and tugged her blanket up to her chin. "Speaking of the Blue Fairy," she huffed. "Did she come up with a plan?"

"No," faltered Snow. "She'll have more answers for us in the morning." Her faith in the fairy had dwindled, but her first concern was to reassure her daughter.

Mary Margaret never lied to Emma, but Snow seemed desperate to shelter her.

With a skeptic gleam in her eye, Emma squirmed around under the covers. "You're not telling me something," she mumbled. "What is it?"

"Your—bond will be difficult to break," Snow admitted. "Because of what Rumpelstiltskin did to you." Her grief affected her articulation and changed the tenor of her delivery.

"You weren't going to tell me," muttered Emma. She let her anger mount until Snow attempted to rationalize the lie.

"—I wanted you to be able to get some rest tonight." The brunette switched off the light and slid into bed.

Emma moved to the far end of the mattress. She felt a hand on the small of her back, and gentle fingers in her hair.

Snow slipped into an indecisive silence, but her compulsive disposition kept her from staying quiet. "You should talk to someone about this," she whispered. "It might help—"

"Why do I have to talk about it?" grunted Emma. "Everyone _knows _what happened, thanks to you." Her brooding body language suggested what she thought of the idea.

Snow cringed and reacted without considering the weight of the accusation. "I didn't tell _anyone_," she argued. "They don't know the details—"

Emma knocked the pink cushion onto the floor and then whipped around to glare at Snow. "You told David," she insisted. "You told him everything you know, and everything you think you know."

Snow was shaken by the betrayal and pain that replaced the trust between them. "He's your father," she cried.

With a dismissive flick of her eyelashes, Emma rolled onto her side. She suppressed her tears of livid reproach until after Snow fell asleep. The radiator hummed and drowned out the sound of her sniffling.

.

.

The stars shimmered like tiny crystals sewn into a black evening gown. The vast sky lowered the strap on its dress, and the moon stood out against the velvety fabric of night.

Rumpelstiltskin tread through the luminous room and observed the dozing occupants of the bed.

In her haze of wakefulness, Emma sensed his distinct and imposing presence. He eased in behind her and dropped his hand upon her shoulder. "Shh," he crooned. "I brought you a present, my dear."

He referred to a blade with an illegible engraving and a tarnished edge. Emma reached out to grasp the hilt, but her fingers lost their grip.

Rumpelstiltskin took her by the wrist and kissed her open palm. "You are frightened of me," he asserted. "But this is also a great comfort to you, _isn't it_?"

"Have I made you feel cherished?" he persisted. "Have I made you feel loved?" His taunting dredged up the latent hurt from her childhood.

Her teeth began to chatter, but she resisted the involuntary response and masked her terror with hostility. "Bastard," she spat. "I comfort _myself _with the thought of burying you."

"_Oh, be_ careful," he seethed. "There will be consequences if you try to provoke me." To stress the seriousness of his warning, Rumpelstiltskin tore back the sheet and leered at her bruised flesh. He touched the smarting seam that ran down her middle. "I paid a great price for you," he snuffled. "A long time ago. You were naught more than a dream, then…"

Emma fought through her drowsiness and rocked away from him. Her stomach churned violently when she hit the floor, and she opened her eyes to find Snow standing over her.

Snow freed Emma from her tangled blanket, and then wrapped the younger woman up in her arms. "You cannot get out of this bed by yourself," she muttered. "Do you understand me?"

Emma held onto Snow and coughed until she sobbed a grateful, "Yes."

* * *

><p>Author's note: Thank you so much for the reviews. Sorry for the long delay…<p>

Uncontrollable circumstances hindered me from working on this piece, but I also needed to collect my thoughts about the next major story arc and make decisions about what needed to be revealed in this chapter. Sorry if it sucks, or isn't up to the usual standard. It's... not very action packed, but it's the best I could do, considering my interest in the show is dwindling…

No decent Emma/MM moments = paltry plot line.

Feel it necessary to note that Emma isn't hallucinating at the end of the chapter. She'll know this when she wakes up in the morning and the weapon is still there. The engraving reads 'Gram' - perhaps you recognize the mythology, but you'll find out more about that in future chapters. Assuming I ever write them.

Since it's unlikely that I'll update soon, I'm including this spoiler: August plans to carve an army from the trees using the specific chisel that carved Pinocchio.

**Swanlove**: Thanks for the review. Yes, I know the story is terribly dark. Beginning to think it's one of the darkest pieces on this site.

Regina didn't originally know that Baelfire lived (reference: "Masks" and "Baby").

If you meant Henry, then I think the scenes in this chapter should clear that up. Maybe? At the end of "Child," Regina is injured. So, she either doesn't hear Bae calling her "mother," or she's just too out of it—

**Lonewolf3676**: Dude. Sent you a response because it was way too long to include here.

**Fan**: I'm glad you're reading. I hope this chapter cleared up most of your questions, but I will still answer them one by one. Regina is alive, but injured. They won't be going back to FTL _yet_. You'll have to wait to see what will happen with that.

August was the one who found Emma. He's referenced as "William Shriver" at end of the chapter entitled "Liar." Note: the POV focus is on his 'brother' Jake (i.e. Baelfire) in that scene, even if the character is never specifically named.

August also makes a brief appearance as a little boy at the end of the chapter entitled "Birds," where he is again referred to as "William."

Regina is Baelfire's mother, yes (reference: "Baby," at the end of the chapter).

Jake/Baelfire is also Henry's father. As Rumpel states in "Fate," – they are "a dysfunctional family."

Rumpel will gain power through his connection to Emma. Not only is he in a position to manipulate her, but the 'savior' also has a greater destiny to fulfill (and with that destiny comes great power).

Belle _might_ make some appearances. I haven't forgotten about her. Regina planned to use her as a bargaining chip, but she didn't get the chance to do it. I must admit that I'm not particularly fond of Belle. Don't like the actress, or the fact that she's been added as a regular cast member for this season. I don't have any interest in writing stories that _revolve _around her, so she'll essentially be a pawn when she appears in this story. I honestly find her actions completely implausible in the series. I mean, she was locked up for 28 years. Rumpel mistreated her. And how does she react to all of that? By giving Rumpel a big hug. I blame the writers.

In my story, Rumpel is infatuated with power and Emma (perhaps even in the reverse order). It will remain that way, I'm pretty sure.

I think the imagery is a bit too much for some people, to be quite honest. This is only one of my many styles, but it's the one that I prefer, even if it's slightly purple….

**EnigmaSphinx**: Thank for you taking the time to comment and to exchange a few messages with me about the piece. I'm not sure if you're still reading, but I'm really glad you spoke up and let me know about your concerns.

**KJohnson17**: Happy you thought it was "epic." It certainly took forever to write. thought I'd have this update finished much sooner, but it took forever…

**SimpleLines**: Thank you!

The MM/Emma interactions = my reason for writing this story.

It will take some time for Emma to overcome her trust issues. She's hurting right now, and it's very dramatic/tragic, but she's reacting out of anger…

Even in the show, I felt she should have been a bit angrier…

**7Seven7**: Thanks. I put _a lot_ of work into this story. Way more work than would probably seem reasonable. I'm pretty slow with the updates, but that's just how my writing process works. I was originally posting every 1-2 weeks, but I've lost my momentum.

**Guest**: So glad you like the complexities. Thank you.

**Hjbau**: I know it's confusing! Sorry! There are a lot of plot twists, and I've purposely been vague with some of the details...

Tried to clarify everything by posting an immediate explanation in "Child," and I included some extra notes here.

**Yessiree**: Thank you!

**JayJ1**: Sent you a response by PM. Thank you so much for your feedback. :)

**JFJD**: I'm sorry it took so long to update! Thank you for reading.

**TourmalineBlue, and Compa16**: Sigh. Here's more. Sorry it took 8 (?) months.

**Roonie: **I'm sorry the story disheartened you. It is heartbreaking, and raw…


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